


i wanna be your favourite boy.

by wingspike



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Felix and Annette are in a band together., Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No beta we die like Glenn., Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Sylvain is the unfortunate heir to his family's company., This is ABSOLUTELY Sylvain focused so hope you're ready., alcohol use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 45,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22333318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingspike/pseuds/wingspike
Summary: Sylvain has a regular weekend routine. A regular bar, a regular drink he orders, and a regular theme of flirting for the night. That is, until Ingrid throws a wrench in this routine thanks to Dorothea, and now they're both to blame for introducing him to Felix Hugo Fraldarius - a boy who is much too pretty for Sylvain to keep his eyes off of and who won't stop plaguing his thoughts.
Relationships: Background Dimitri/Claude - Relationship, Background Dorothea/Ingrid, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 25
Kudos: 156





	1. i see you.

**Author's Note:**

> More Sylvix! I actually started writing wedding Sylvix as my next Sylvix piece and then saw art of Felix and Annette in a band and immediately starting writing this lol. Slow burn, lots of AU building! A lot of things I haven't written and a length pushing everything I have ever, ever written ... so please bear with me.
> 
> No beta but big thanks to Oli for always letting me bounce ideas off of you for majors and situations and everything else... and putting up with me reading parts of it out loud to make sure they make sense. I'll probably end up writing more in this universe when this is done (DimiClaude... maybe some post-fic Sylvix. idk!)
> 
> This fic is VERY Sylvain focused, as a heads up. I really wanted to do a character study .. which I know seems silly for using an AU to do it but, alas. I feel like there aren't a lot of Sylvain centered things, and I wanted to explore his character considering how much depth he has that people don't consider, at times. Hope he makes enough sense!
> 
> Rating right now isn't explicit but will become that, so marking it as such for now. :) I'll mention in later chapters when it gets there, since there will be a couple moments!
> 
> In advance, thank you for reading! Pretty sure this fic is going to be a monster.

Sylvain has a routine, or at least he likes to think he does. He’s done the same thing almost every Friday night for the last four semesters, no matter what his class schedule might be. That’s a routine, right? He gets up for the day, cooks and eats breakfast, sits through some boring lecture for a major he doesn’t even care about so he can impress and please his overbearing, business mogul father. Somewhere in there, he’ll stuff some more food in his mouth and then goes back home to shower. If he’s gone to the gym somewhere in there, too, his shower will be extra long and relaxing on his sore muscles. Afterwards, he gets out, dries off, and gets dressed up to go to his favourite dive down the street.

It’s a nice spot, if he’s being honest. He likes it for the atmosphere. Kind of hipster, kind of hole-in-the-wall, the smell of fried bar foods and stale beer clinging to the couches pushed off to the sides and lingering in the air. This place has his favourite mozzarella sticks and the best craft beer selection he can get, this side of the city. The owner/bartender/most-likely-assassin (if he’s going off looks) is beautiful in an “I’d have to kill you if I told you” kind of way and her wife is loud and hilarious and downright _jacked_ , and Sylvain likes the stories she tells. They play good music, and when he’s not looking for someone, he enjoys his alone time here, looking at the bi-weekly rotating local art on the walls. He’d be a true liar if he had any bad words for this place. 

If he’s lucky, he might find a cute girl (or guy) looking to be taken home and treated right for one night. It doesn’t always happen, and if Sylvain is being honest with himself (for once) he’d go so far as to say he's kind of over it. That maybe he’s ready to be treated right (or to treat himself right, as Ingrid tells him he needs to start doing).

But tonight is no normal night. No, there’s a wrench in his normal routine and that wrench is named Ingrid Brandl Galatea.

Ingrid, who only texts Sylvain out of necessity and never out of nowhere. That’s  _ his _ job.

_ I: Hey. Are you going to your “normal” spot, tonight? _

**S: yeah what’s up?**

_ I: Dorothea invited me out to that … place. She has a friend from her major that is playing a show there tonight. I figured I would go if you were. _

There it is. That’s the ticket. No way in  _ hell _ would Ingrid have the time for going out, let alone with Sylvain  _ unless _ it was somewhere classy where he was paying and was only allowed to participate in “civilized conversation”, per her standards (AKA no flirting with anyone). She was always too busy baking bread or whatever it was she was doing to prep for taking over her family’s bakery (which he knows is  _ so much more _ than just bread and knows the stress she carries on her shoulders. He just likes to tease her a lot about the bread part).

But for Dorothea? Sylvain knows Ingrid too well. She’ll do anything for sweet, charming Dorothea. He saw that much. Truthfully, he was waiting for the day that Ingrid would just suck it up and finally confess her feelings. Not that hard, right? (In reality, he knows the truth. How her family would react, especially considering her ex-fiance and the whole death-in-car-crash fiasco. How they’ve been holding out on her finding another nice boy to marry, as reluctant as she has been since her high school sweetheart passed. How she’s thrown herself into the bakery, as if that’s all she's allowed anymore.)

He can leave that one for another day.

**S: you wanna stop over here before? i can make you some chamomile if you bring the treats**

_ I: I’ll be there at 6pm. The show is at 8. _

**S: see ya then :)**

Sylvain gets nothing back, but that’s ok. He knows Ingrid well enough. Childhood friends and everything. He knows she’ll be prompt, maybe a couple minutes early. Her small blue purse will be on one shoulder, a bag full of his favourite almond pastries on her other arm. Maybe she’d be wearing a little makeup and a nice top to catch Dorothea’s gaze. She’d probably have her hair back in her normal braids. Possibly a smile, though she might look anxious for attending something so far out of her element. He’s trying to picture it all, but he’s drawing a blank, so he checks his phone again for the time - 3pm - and figures he can take a small nap and still get ready before Ingrid’s there.

- **x** -

He’s right about being able to get up and get ready before Ingrid comes, but just barely. The nap does him good, especially considering he thought he was going to die of boredom in his mid-morning geology class. Why Sylvain put off a terrible science gen-ed, he may never know. And why he thought something as boring as geology would go hand-in-hand with his minor was an even better question.

Sylvain finishes styling his hair, pulling at the piece above his eyebrows until he decides he’s satisfied with how he looks. Maybe he’s a little dressed down compared to normal, but he’s just on the edge of rested and tired where he wants to stay comfortable. Red hoodie, ripped jeans, his favourite and  _ very _ beat-up high tops. Low maintenance, but he thinks he looks good anyways. Good enough to answer the door and spend time with Ingrid, at least. That's what matters, tonight.

The three knocks on his apartment door are perfunct, very Ingrid-like. He answers with a huge smile and a sweep of his arm as he steps to the side, very Sylvain-like. He doesn’t need to be told twice to move, so he lets her in before noticing the barely concealed anxiety she’s holding beneath her surface layers.

“You good, Ingrid?” he jokes, brow raised her way as he shuts the front door.

“I’m fine. Are you brewing tea or what?”

She doesn’t even chance a glance his way, too distracted with keeping her hands busy unloading sweets onto his counter as if she’s going to vibrate out of her skin if she doesn’t. Sylvain laughs, stepping around her to flip on the electric kettle he’d previously filled.

“Comin’ right up, my lady.”

Sylvain hears the ripping of a paper container behind him as he’s pulling down mugs and plopping tea bags into both. Chamomile for her, bergamot for himself. It’s hard to ignore the nervous energy in the air, but he’s trying his best to wait for Ingrid so she doesn’t explode. Or maybe she will, either way. It's hard to judge, depending on her mood.

A silence falls between them, save for the rustling of paper and the bubbling of the electric kettle before Ingrid blurts into the space between them, face pink -

“I want to be … presentable, tonight. Since I’m seeing her. Dorothea. I brought my makeup and more from the bakery to pay you for your help.”

Oh, this is good.

Sylvain laughs again, quieter, pulling the soon-to-be screaming kettle off it’s roost before filling up both of their mugs. He passes one to Ingrid, who immediately and gratefully cradles it close to her body, looking into the tea-filled waters as if they hold the answers to her predicament.

“You don’t have to, either. I just figured -”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sylvain interrupts. “Anything for you, Ingrid.”

He watches as she gradually deflates, bringing the mug to her lips for the most tentative of sips. Raising a hand, Sylvain jerks a thumb towards the couch.

“C’mon. Let’s drink our tea and I’ll do your face up.”

- **x** -

They share a relatively comfortable silence as some random show on Netflix plays that he knows Ingrid likes. Neither of them are really watching it, but that’s ok. Sylvain’s content with the quiet after listening to the drone of his professors all week. The silence with Ingrid is companionable, as always, even with Sylvain being the type to fill the air with conversation. Right now, though, he’s content with finishing off his tea and relaxing back into the cushions of his couch. When he does finish, he sets his mug down on one of the coasters on the oak coffee table. He stretches his arms out and then above his head as his back pops.

“Nothing like a good cup of tea.” Ingrid hums her response. She sounds a little more relaxed.  _ Good _ . “You ready for me to work my magic?”

She nods, handing Sylvain the makeup bag she brought with her. He’s done this before for her. Once, when she stayed with him in France for a week, Sylvain going on about it being an excuse to dress up and telling her all about how crazy his family members were about appearances (he remembers this one all too well out of all of his memories of dolling Ingrid up. Sylvain will never forget being asked when their wedding was and being told how lovely they were. It was so soon after .. well, what happened with Glenn that it made for a very upset Ingrid and a very long, very awkward dinner). He’s done this a couple times for going out. Once, for her family’s ribbon cutting at the bakery. He isn’t sure if there are any other moments when it’s normally Mercedes getting Ingrid ready and dragging her out. 

Still, he doesn’t hesitate as he turns towards her and they’re knee-to-knee, legs crossed on the couch. Admittedly, it’s comforting that Ingrid trusts him with something like this when no one ever really trusts him to take care of them in ways a part of him wishes he was allowed.

Sylvain pulls out a pretty pink blush to go with the mint coloured dress she’s wearing. He grabs some bronzer out of the bag, too, along with a shimmery brown eyeshadow palette, a brush, mascara, and a clear lip gloss. Ingrid is already pretty, so he never uses much on her face. Even as her life-long friend, he can still admit that. Whether she’s made up or bare faced with her hair wild in the wind on horseback, she looks good. It’s just in her DNA.

Ingrid is still holding her mug, tea almost gone. Her eyes fall closed in a rare display of her trust, and Sylvain has to bite the inside of his cheek to avoid saying something cheeky. He doesn’t want to destroy this peace, especially since he’s been counting down the days that lead up to the end of his college career. Because this can’t last forever. Moments like this aren’t allowed to last forever, for him. They'll only last as memories, in the end. It almost feels like he’s growing too old, too quick, what with the way he is feebly holding onto times like this.

Even so, Sylvain has work to do and no time to dwell on the future when his best friend is right in front of him. So he exhales, busying himself with softly brushing blush across Ingrid’s cheeks. He uses his fingers to lightly swipe some highlighter at her cupid’s bow, her cheeks, the tip of her nose. He warms her complexion with the bronzer before covering her eyelids in two shades of brown. Nothing too dark, though. Just enough to accentuate her features. He coats her lashes with mascara and she looks up when she needs to, dutiful and still. Her eyes close again and her lips part slightly to allow him to put on her lip gloss.

His friend really  _ is _ beautiful like this, he thinks. Sylvain drops the lip gloss back into the makeup bag before raising a hand, pushing aside a few hairs that have fallen into her eyes in a manner that’s probably a little too tender, even for him. Ingrid looks up at this, gaze questioning and confused. And because Sylvain is no good at keeping quiet, he asks,

“Are you going to tell her tonight?”

His tone is far more gentle than he meant it to be, but it still causes Ingrid to tense up before quickly glancing to the side. Her body turns some and Sylvain can tell she’s debating running from the topic or charging head on. She picks the latter, naturally. She normally doesn’t bullshit with him, which he’s grateful for. 

“I want to, Syl. I want to, but I’m so -”

“Scared?”

She sighs, nodding. “Nothing has been the same since Glenn. You know that. You’ve seen it in everyone. And she’s just so… she doesn’t need that extra drama from someone.”

Sylvain just shakes his head, taking her hand in his to give it a squeeze.

“If she likes you, it shouldn't matter. You deserve nice things still, Ingrid.”

Ingrid returns the squeeze to his hand with a “thank you”. And then she has a fierce look in her eyes as she squeezes tighter. He knows this look too well, knows she isn’t going to back down because Sylvain has challenged her without even knowing it. 

“You deserve nice things too, Sylvain,” she states simply.

Oof. There it is. Every ounce of air in his lungs leaves his body because this is something he  _ very much  _ has been avoiding confronting and unpacking. He wants to keep it locked up until he leaves and can wallow in it alone without anyone else watching him sabotage himself with their knowing and judging gazes. He sees it from Mercedes and Ingrid and sometimes Dimitri on his clear days and can’t stand it one bit. It makes him want to run and he  _ can’t _ because he’s  _ stuck _ with nowhere to go.

He bites his lip, a fake laugh bubbling up as he rubs the back of his neck. His other hand is still trapped in her inhumanly strong grip.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies.

An eye roll. Nice. She’s still not letting go and Sylvain wants to go hide in the kitchen and shove twenty almond cakes into his mouth to avoid talking about this.

“Come on, Syl.”

“It’s not gonna work, not this time. No way.”

“ _ Seriously _ ? You can’t avoid it forever. We don’t  _ have _ forever,” she pushes.

“You know that’s not what I’m doing.” 

He feels the tension in his shoulders, the anxiety of talking about his feelings starting to make him feel nauseous. He tries to break her hold and fails.

“Yes. It is.” She’s being firm, now. No bullshit, once more. He sincerely hates and appreciates when this happens. “It’s what you’ve  _ always _ done. You can’t push everyone away, Sylvain. We  _ care _ . Mercedes would be heartbroken and you  _ know _ Dimitri already doesn’t know what to do with himself, most days. And I still want my best friend.”

Ingrid is pushing and pushing and  _ pushing _ , and Sylvain can’t  _ take it _ . This is a Friday. He doesn’t sign up for these things on  _ Fridays _ .

“It’s not and it doesn’t matter because you don’t get to decide what I do and don’t do and what I do and don’t deserve,” he snaps, immediately regretting it as hurt flashes in her eyes. That defiance still remains, though, and he knows this isn’t over. He shrinks in on himself a little as the tension begins to bleed out of his shoulders and he tightens his grip on her hand. “I’m sorry. Shit, you know I don’t mean it like that.”

She’s looking at him expectantly, as patiently as she can.

He sighs, continuing.

“You know how my dad is. I don’t have a  _ choice _ . There’s always been one path in front of me to follow and that’s it. End of story. I can’t just  _ not _ . It’s never been an option.”

The feeling of helplessness this admission brings sits uneasy in his stomach as he tries to breathe through it.

“You know you can make your own path, too,” she says.

“So can you, if you stop worrying about what your family would think about who you brought home,” he retorts. Fuck. “ _ Fuck _ . I didn’t say that. Ingrid, you didn’t hear that.” He just keeps adding to his list of regrets. Just what he's good at.

“Like  _ you _ have any right to talk,” she snips back.

“Hey, you  _ know _ what happened to Miklan when my dad found out. You  _ know _ what happened to me when he sat me down and told me to never speak about my brother’s ‘perversions’ or whatever the fuck he called them and told me he expected better from his heir. Not even his  _ son _ , because that’s all I am to him. I cried to you about that when I was fifteen and we stole that wine from the cellars at Dimitri’s because I knew I liked boys and wasn’t allowed to. Remember that?" He's speaking with his hands a little wildly, his emotions stuck in his chest with no where to go. He's frustrated at this, at himself, at his stupid family dynamic and life for not allowing him what he just might want. "What am I supposed to do, anyways? March into my dad’s office and tell him how many boys I’ve fucked since I realized I liked the same thing my brother did?”

Sylvain feels out of breath when he finishes, like he’s run a marathon. Ingrid is frowning and giving him that _I’m-sad-and-disappointed_ look. Realistically, he knows she’s doing this for his own good. That she cares. That she can’t get him to open his eyes unless it’s like this, like she’s using her bare hands to pull at the spaces in his ribs to seek out his heart and clutch it as tight as she’s able before he starts spilling each and every dark secret he’s locked up since he was six. He notices she’s finally let go of his hand, but he isn’t entirely sure when that happened. Now, she’s opening her arms for a hug and Sylvain is so, so weak for her strong, comforting hugs. He instantly leans in for it, presses his face into her neck, inhaling the clean, floral smell of her soap with a shaky breath to ground himself as he crushes her into his arms.

“I’m sorry, Ingrid,” he mumbles.

She smiles. He can feel it against his temple where she rests.

“No. I’m sorry. I didn’t know those things still got to you. Tonight was supposed to be… well,  _ fun _ .”

He pulls back, reluctant but trying not to make it seem so (and he’s trying to tell himself he doesn’t need it, that he’ll be fine on his own like he always has been because he’s the oldest, he’s supposed to be the pillar to his friends in their times of need), all smiles as he pinches her cheek, much to her protest. Maybe it isn’t a real smile, but it’s better than so many he’s given her before.

“It’s fine. Means we can have another cup of tea and some cake to make up for it. You know I love ya.”

“I love you too, Syl.”

- **x** -

They do end up having a second cup of tea together, almost forgetting what time it is. Sylvain packs away three of the almond cakes that Ingrid brought and takes a fourth one for the road as they rush out the doors for the short, cold walk to the bar. They’re almost late, getting there fifteen minutes before the show is supposed to start. Sylvain sits at the bar to order a beer, something dark and chocolatey while Ingrid orders a vodka-sprite. He chats with Dorothea a bit when she comes up to them before she whisks Ingrid away. Ingrid gives him a smile that’s equal parts “sorry for leaving you especially since we just had that emotional heart-to-heart” and what he likes to think is “wish me luck!” but is probably “oh, I’m going to be alone with her stay close for me in case I need you”.

_ It’s fine _ , he thinks to himself, twirling the cup in his hand before taking a drink of his beer.  _ She’s in love. Good for her _ . 

He pulls out his phone, confirming it’s devoid of messages save for one from Dimitri asking if he’d like to get lunch between their classes together on Wednesday. It makes him snort, to think about. Ever formal, even if they’ll see each other and sit together in their shared class that’s  _ right _ before lunch; even if this is their weekly ritual unless one of them has a horrific amount homework or something else comes up. He types back a quick response.

**S: anything for you dima *kissing emoji***

_ D: Perfect. Your choice this week. :) _

Dimitri, such a gracious friend letting him pick. Sylvain’s definitely surprising him with the Indian restaurant they frequent, yet haven’t been to in awhile in favour of exploring some new places. This place is _the_ _ one _ , the one that’s perfectly spiced and Dimitri can actually  _ taste _ the spiciest dishes they have. It makes Sylvain the happiest person in the world when he sees that adorable face light up because the food is just so fucking  _ good _ , better than everything that is bland and tasteless . He loves it just as much as he loves Dimitri in his own weird way that can’t be explained.

Sylvain just smiles down at the smiley emoji on his screen before pocketing his phone to glance around the bar. So many people, compared to normal. So many more  _ couples  _ than he's used to at this place . It makes him fidget a little, taking another swig of his beer. Ugh, _love_.

Sylvain can’t say he believes in love at first sight. At least, not 100%. Maybe it’s from all the flirting and fucking he’s done. Or maybe it’s just because no one has ever really taken the time or shown the interest to get to know him fully and truly, almost making it feel like love is hopeless and not for him. He thinks he had love with his mother, has never had it from his father, and has only had a twinkle of it with a quick fuck in a dark room that always resulted with an empty bed in the morning. Nothing has ever been different, and he dares to assume it probably won’t ever be. Why would it? Love isn’t made for boys like him. Boys like him are stuck doing what their family wants, bending what constraints they can but too terrified to actually stand up and say something.

From the day he was born, the plan has never changed - he’ll be convinced by his father to marry some girl after graduating whose daddy is rich that also owns some multi-million dollar business that’s important to ally with. She’ll like Sylvain for his money and dick but won’t care about the kids they’ll have to have that’ll take over their respective family companies when they’re older. Sylvain will be miserable, as complacent as he can be through it all. She’ll probably cheat on him, but he’ll be the one to hear how disappointed his father is that he couldn’t keep his own wife 'happy and faithful' (and Sylvain will  _ so badly _ want to snap at him and tell him that he must not have made _his_ wife any happier because she clearly didn’t love you enough for you to turn into such a worthless bastard who doesn’t give a flying fuck about anyone but yourself). He’ll yell some more to get it out, and Sylvain will grin and bear it before going back to his miserable, terribly fated, un-chosen life. When it’s all over, the cycle will just continue. His brother will be laughing somewhere at him, thinking it’s the funniest shit ever and probably ever grateful that he got disowned for admitting who he wanted in life. 

It’s a  _ Friday night _ , for fuck’s sake, and maybe he shouldn’t be thinking about such dark things that he’s gotten good at trying to ignore, even though it’s hard when their fingers are creeping across the horizon as the middle of the semester approaches. Closer, ever closer. Before he knows it, spring semester will come, he’ll be done with school, and he’ll be shipped around to play company pet where he’s needed only to rarely (or never) see his friends again as work consumes his unfortunate life.

It’s a little sad, when he thinks about it. When he’s sitting at the bar, beer forgotten and cradled between his hands, condensation making his palms damp. Alone. 

Sylvain watches while Ingrid and Dorothea chat next to a small table closer to the stage. Even at this distance, he can see the flirtatiousness of Dorothea’s gaze and the fond smile Ingrid has on. He thinks that’s the kind of look he’s only seen her give the horses at the stables of her old family home outside of city lines when they have a rare day to ride together during their summer breaks. There, the sky is clear and there’s no light pollution and you can see all the stars at night. There, Sylvain feels vulnerable, like the sky could swallow him whole and he wouldn’t have to come back down to Earth to worry about every responsibility he didn’t ask to have. There, Ingrid is gentle and doesn’t realize how much she exposes of her raw and kind soul as she smiles at her favourite horse and pets across her silky grey coat. 

But now she’s here, in this hole in the wall bar down from Sylvain’s apartment, giving a girl looks he never thought she’d give anyone but Glenn and her animals and the loaf of bread she bakes at four in the morning with warm thoughts of the family who might be eating it at their breakfast table the next day. No, it doesn’t make him jealous. No, he doesn’t mind that he was brought along as a scapegoat, should something go wrong (nothing will go wrong - he knows this by how they keep staring at each other). No, it doesn’t make him mad that she’s happy and he’s not ( ~~he is, he really is~~ \- no he’s not, he’s  _ lying _ ). He’s happy, really. Happy for her, happy for the random couple kissing in the corner of the bar, happy for the blue haired woman with sharp eyes serving drinks while her blonde partner gazes adoringly at her, waiting for a lull in the business so they can talk for what is probably the umpteenth time in a day. 

Really, it’s great. This place is great, life is great, his friends are great. He has more than so many others and he knows he shouldn’t take any of it for granted, but there’s that stupid part of him that never completely squashed his dreams of love. Maybe not love at first sight, but love. To love and be loved in return. 

Sylvain groans, tearing his gaze away to pillow a cheek on his arm. He knows how he looks about now. Pathetic, like he’s got issues, like he’s probably had too much to drink. There’s a part of him that wants to leave his half-full beer and slip out so Ingrid can enjoy her time alone, but there’s another part of him that couldn’t stand the upset in her eyes when she would inevitably confront him about it later. She’d have that disapproving gaze for not saying anything, and then it would turn sad because, “Sylvain.. you know we only have six more months together before your dad sends you back to France. We want to see you while we can. Dimitri, Mercedes, me. I won’t have anyone to drive out to the country with anymore. You can’t hide behind all your school work forever, you know.” Little does she know that he _does_ know, but he likes to pretend he doesn’t because it’s easier to smile and promise things on a later date so he has time to unpack and repack his feelings before coming face to face with them. 

He’s startled out of his thoughts by the woman kitty-corner at the bar speaking up, an amused glimmer in her eye. 

“Having troubles tonight, loverboy?” 

Sylvain rolls his eyes, sitting back up to scrub a hand through his hair. There goes his careful styling. 

“No, just ready for the semester to be over, Catherine. I’m not looking for anyone tonight. I brought Ingrid,” he responds, nodding in her general direction. 

“Alright, if you say so.”

He can hear the teasing in her voice before Shamir is shushing them both, before they’re both drowned out by a low bass chord being struck. 

Oh, it’s  _ that time _ .

It’s been quite a long time since Sylvain’s even been to a show. He’s trying to think of the last time he went to one, but can’t really recall. Was it when he was abroad in Paris for his father’s company? He thinks that might have been it. He just remembers he got to see one of his favourite bands from the UK (even if he can’t seem to remember who it was) and that he probably had one too many drinks, arm around a girl whispering sweet nothings and even more false, empty promises of taking her back to his apartment provided by daddy’s money in her ear in lilting French.

He was good at it, that whole sweet-talking thing, even if he’d significantly laid off of it since then. After being abroad and playing the same game for the first three years of college, it just became boring. Not that he’d admit to kicking the bad habit, because there were definitely nights where he sought out the company of a warm body only to break their heart and leave his more empty, but it was far less frequent than before.

Sylvain turns fully towards the stage, forgetting his drink behind him in favour of leaning back on his elbows. He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath in the dark, waiting for the song to start and the lights to raise until they do and he catches sight of one of the most stunning people he’s probably ever seen. His breath leaves him in a rush, making him feel dizzy.

Dark hair, long, pulled back in a messy bun that shouldn’t look half as artful as it does. He can’t tell if it’s black or blue, and Sylvain can’t help but think that he’d like to run his hands through it and see what colour it shines under sunlight. The boy is looking down, concentrated on the strings of his guitar as if there isn’t anyone else in the world except him and his instrument. His fingers are delicate and nimble as they slide quick across the fret board, playing something complex that he’d never be able to wrap his mind around. His cheekbones cut sharp and pretty, softened by his bangs and the random strands of hair that slip out of his hair tie; sharp as his gaze when it finally rises to the crowd, almost golden, molten, spearing Sylvain even if he knows he isn’t being directly looked at. Still, he can’t help but feel like he is, can’t help but  _ wish  _ he was the actual target of that look. Being looked at. Being looked  _ through _ . This guy looks good, needless to say, all pretty features and black pants tight enough to be criminal with the long sleeves of his turtleneck rolled up to reveal toned forearms. Gods, he makes Sylvain want to renounce his already non-existent faith and sin and  _ sin _ and sin again. He’s mesmerized. 

“Damn.”

He thinks he might hear Shamir snort from behind him where she’s leaning forward on her own elbows, a lull in needy drinkers while people turn, enraptured by the scene playing out on stage in front of them. Surely they’re as enraptured as Sylvain feels, even if he’s only looking at one person amongst the four. He doesn’t really chance a glance at the rest of them until they finish their first song and a sweet voice speaks clear through the microphone.

“Hello, F ó dlan’s Tap!”

Everyone cheers.

She looks happier when people clap, extremely so. She’s definitely got a magnetic attraction to her, from the way she carries herself to her demeanor on stage to the way she dresses in creams and burnt oranges and a splash of teal, looking sweet in her dress and sparkly tights and bright orange hair and so unlike the boy playing guitar. Even if she might be small, she commands center stage. Sylvain will later learn that her name is Annette and she plays a pretty sweet tambourine. This is the one that Dorothea knows, he’s guessing, considering she’s the one singing and all. He believes it to be a fair assumption, and it turns out to be the only one he’s right about.

The other two look just as out of place. Or maybe they all look out of place yet oddly like they belong together because of how different their appearances are.

The boy on the far right of the stage looks tired, almost like he’s sleeping while strumming a steady rhythm on his bass guitar as they begin their second song. His eyes are perpetually closed, it seems, and Sylvain’s not even sure how he’s upright. He’s also pretty, but not striking in the same kind of way that the guitarist is. His hair is long, half back, and a deep shade of forest green. He’s in dark colours of teal and black, or maybe it’s navy and he just can’t tell because of the lights on stage. Needless to say, his playing is smooth and easy to listen to despite first impressions.

Sylvain barely has to look at the boy in the back to tell that he’s the one with the most energy of the group. His smile is wild and his hair is probably the brightest shade of blue Sylvain’s ever seen on a person. He figures it matches his personality and the way he dresses in his cut off sleeves and vibrant colours. It doesn’t even look like he can sit still enough to play his drums, the bouncing he does in his seat and each of his movements shifting his entire body as he plays. It’s a wonder how easy a rhythm he’s able to drum out despite that kind of energy, how he can tamp it down enough when the song goes quiet before exploding back into action again.

Later, Ingrid will be the one to have a normal human conversation with these two and learn that their names are Caspar and Linhardt. She probably won’t ask how they all got together as a band, and that’s ok, so long as he ends up finding out the name of their fourth member. For now, he’s content to listen and watch. Watch the one on the left, the one his eyes keep straying back to even with so many unique personas on stage.

They play their set. Sylvain watches the entire time. He probably stares a little too long at the guitarist, watching his fingers a little too closely and wondering what else they’d be good at, thinks about how ethereal he must look with his hair down and framing his face. It’s wrong to think the things he is, he knows that. Not like he hasn’t entertained thoughts about strangers before, considering it’s what gets people into his bed, but never like this. Like maybe this is one of those moments where he thinks for a split second that he doesn’t want to know just what those hands can do on a more intimate level, but what they can do, period. What he looks like with his hair down and wet from a shower, snug in a sweater or whatever he wears for a comfy night in. He doesn’t notice that Ingrid has glanced over from the table she’s sitting at with Dorothea and has caught the way he’d been staring.

Sylvain feels like he’s been struck by lightning at the thought and immediately has to turn from the stage, jolted from his comfortable position back against the bar. He reaches for the long forgotten beer in front of him, much too warm, much too bitter, as he slams it back and motions to Shamir for something that’s a little stronger because he  _ cannot  _ and  _ will not  _ start to think about that and what that might mean.

Shamir mixes him something strong. A double Jack and Coke, the only other thing he seldom drinks when he isn’t looking for a couple beers and a good time. He drinks it a little too quickly before asking for another that he then nurses, thumb swiping at the cool liquid condensing quickly on the side of the glass from the humid atmosphere in the bar. It’s bordering on too warm for his taste, but he’s trying to take it in stride until he’s startled by a hand on his wrist.

It’s Ingrid.

His smile comes quick, a little too easy in the way he knows how to force it even if it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Sylvain knows she’ll see right through it but it’s instinct. He can’t help it.

“Do you want to come say hi?” she asks, knowingly. 

_ Gods _ , does he want to come say hi. Sylvain wants to go say hi so badly but doesn’t want to fuck anything up or make a fool of himself. He already feels foolish, thoughts running wild from someone he’s seen  _ once _ in his gods-damned life. This is probably someone he’s passed on campus and wow, that must be even more embarrassing to think about. What if they’ve met before and he just doesn’t remember or he hadn't realized it? Oh, that’s the  _ worst _ . 

Ingrid can clearly tell that he’s running through a lot in his brain when he doesn’t immediately respond before she decides she’s not giving him a choice, tugging on his wrist to go say hi to everyone. Linhardt and Caspar are too busy in a conversation with someone else, which is perfectly ok, because Sylvain isn’t sure he can handle that kind of energy level right now (even if they do kind of balance each other out, in a weird way, he fleetingly observes). Dorothea is pleasant again, like the beginning of the night, and she’s hesitant when she introduces him to Annette. He tries his best not to immediately flirt, but old habits die hard and he has to slip a flattering compliment in there. She gives him a playful roll of her eyes before sticking out her hand for him to shake. Which he does, kindly so.

Annette is looking around after all of their introductions and kind pleasantries, confusion written clear on her features.

“Where’s Felix?”

Felix.  _ Felix _ . That’s his name. That’s his  _ name _ . Sylvain is going to combust.

“Is that your guitarist?” he blurts out, biting his tongue to shut up. He makes eye contact with Ingrid. This  _ is _ embarrassing. He was right.

“Yeah, that’s him!” Annette responds cheerfully. Her expression transforms to a pout quickly. “He’s such a lone wolf, always sneaking off before he can meet any of my friends.”

_ Damn _ .

Or, maybe not damn. Sylvain sweeps his eyes over the bar to look for him, too. He  _ is _ a bit taller than Annette, after all, which makes the search a bit easier, along with the small size of the space. He’s trying not to look too desperate to meet the person who single-handedly distracted him for the last forty-five minutes (this never happens and is something for him to categorize and pick apart later). Ingrid’s gaze is  _ burning _ him as he does it.

Sylvain catches him at the bar, casually nodding towards it.

“That him?” he asks.

Annette pushes around Sylvain to look before nodding. “Yes! Ugh,  _ Felix _ !!!” she shouts. “Come meet people!”

Sylvain can see the way he rolls his eyes from the bar, sauntering back over with a drink in his hand. Definitely not something sweet, but he can’t quite tell what it is. Not that it matters. Not that he would have offered to buy his next drink, if he’d tell him what he’s drinking. It feels so wrong, though, to use those kinds of lines on this guy. Like he’d be gutted the second he opened his mouth and said three words that sounded flirty  _ at all _ . He manages to keep it to himself, if only barely. Ingrid’s lingering gaze is probably what is keeping him in check.

Annette is a whirlwind of good memory as she tells Felix everyone's names, starting at one side of their small circle. Sylvain is the last for her to introduce, and Sylvain gives Felix his best smile. No teeth, though, feels too try-hard. Well, he feels like he’s already trying too hard. Period. He honestly can’t recall a time when someone made him feel so flustered and it's only causing him to feel even _more_ flustered.

“Hey. You were good up there,” is all Sylvain can manage without looking like a total idiot.

“Thanks,” is all Felix responds with as he takes a slow drink from his glass, gaze locked on Sylvain. 

_ Fuck _ . He’s fucked.

“Yeah, don’t mention it.”

He bites his lip, takes a much-too-large drink of his own drink and then another until he’s downed it because for once in his life, he can’t even handle  _ one  _ person looking at him. It feels like there are too many eyes on him, so he pretends that his phone is vibrating and someone clearly needs him. He pulls it out, acting like he’s sending a text when he’s really just flipping through his home screens a couple times before shoving it back into his pants.

“Hey, sorry Ingrid. You have fun with Dorothea and everyone for me, ok? Dimitri needs me,” he lies. The taste of it is more bitter than his alcohol and he knows Ingrid has already seen through him, because Dimitri doesn’t ask any of them for _anything_. He doesn’t notice the way Felix minutely stiffens at the name but gives him a blinding smile, all the same. “Nice to meet you. See ya around.”

And then he’s out with a wave, glass left on the bar and keys in his hand as he fidgets with them all the way back to his apartment, the walk colder and even more alone.


	2. daft pretty boy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain has tea with Bernadetta, lunch with Dimitri, and an after class run in with Felix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain, Ingrid, Dimitri, and Mercedes are childhood friends in this AU. Sylvain knows Ingrid and Dimitri since they were babies and Mercedes from later on. I tried to explore his relationship in this verse with Ingrid in the last chapter. This chapter is focused on his relationship with Dimitri and how Dedue came into their lives! Next chapter will show his relationship as Mercedes, to set all of that up.
> 
> Felix, Annette, and Ashe are all childhood friends for the other side of the story. 
> 
> Also, Bernadetta! I really like her and Sylvain's interactions so .. naturally she had to come into play. I just love her too much.
> 
> I hope this chapter makes enough sense! Think I said that about the last. I can't believe I wrote so much lol. No beta, just editing on my own while I'm at work since that's how things go sometimes. I'm about halfway through the next chapter, already, so I'm hoping to have it finished sooner rather than later. THANK YOU again for reading!!
> 
> TW: Mentions of alcohol use in this chapter, as well as brief mentions of car accident trauma on Dimitri's end.

Sylvain goes home and spends the rest of his Friday night very much alone with an empty box of pastries and an even more empty bottle of wine that Dimitri had brought over the last time he had been there. The wine is some nice red that’s not too dry that he should be appreciating when paired with the pastries, but he’s been stuck watching some terrible action movie to get his mind off of the entire evening. Ingrid, leaving for France, his dad, boys,  _ everything _ . It’s been a lot. There’s a part of him that wants to think indulging himself in sweets and alcohol while watching something so mind-numbingly awful is working to keep himself distracted, but it very much is not. Not at all.

His traitorous mind keeps wandering back to Felix. Felix, that he creepily looked up on social media, only to find out that he has an extremely fluffy black cat with sharp eyes that looks a little too much like it’s owner. Felix, who he finds out is Glenn’s younger brother, if his last name is anything to go by, and that surprises Sylvain enough to question how they never met when he was always around Ingrid. Felix, who Sylvain can’t stop having terrible thoughts about - thinks about how pretty he is and how his hands would feel and what he’d look like with his hair spread out underneath him.

He sighs, going to take another drink of wine to find out that it’s empty. At this point, he figures he might as well resign himself to the clutches of his couch and sleep. He pulls up the fuzzy blanket he’d wrapped himself up in higher.

The movie drones on in the background while the light from the TV is all that illuminates the room. It casts everything in shadows of green and blue from the scene playing, and Sylvain closes his eyes to it all. He falls asleep with minimal effort, dragged down by the warmth of his blankets and the weight of the alcohol as a melancholy music track plays in the film. He sleeps restlessly and dreams of a faceless boy and his brother saying, “I told you so,” and his angry father yelling things at him that he can’t discern. When he wakes, he thankfully doesn’t remember any of it.

- **x** -

When the morning comes, Sylvain instantly regrets all of his choices. Why did he think getting wine-drunk would solve any of his problems? He should know better, as this isn’t the first time and wine-drunk has never been for him. He remembers the last time this happened, and damn Dorothea for practically murdering him and being the perfect host as she kept his glass topped off all night long. It ended with a terrible hangover in the morning and a whole lot of regret as he tried to function like a normal human being. Like now.

Daylight streamed bright and obnoxious through the sheers in his living room, assaulting Sylvain as he fully opened his eyes in an attempt to figure out just what time it was. He couldn’t tell from looking at the window, just knew it was too sunny for his taste. The ache in his limbs from sleeping so soundly on his plush couch began to make itself known as he shifted, feeling around the cushions for his phone until he found it under the pillow.

He sighed at the brightly lit screen, almost surprised that he had slept as long as he did.

**12:34 PM.**   
_ 1 missed call. _ _  
_ _ 3 texts: Ingrid. _ __  
_ 1 text: Dimitri. _ _  
_ __ 1 text: Dad .

Each text was one text too many for the day he figured he was going to be having, especially the single one from his father.

Sylvain resigns himself to getting up, anyways, shucking off the jeans he fell asleep in for added comfort. Perks of living alone. He begrudgingly trudges to the kitchen, pulling out the unfortunate pre-ground coffee beans he owned in favour of avoiding the larger headache his coffee grinder would undoubtedly cause. After loading the filter with enough grounds for a strong three cups, he fills the water carafe to match. He flips on the pot before heading to the bathroom to assess the rest of the damage he caused to himself, last night.

Here, he relieves himself, washes his hands, and brushes his teeth in a haze. Sylvain frowns at his own reflection in the mirror as he finger-combs through his hair before settling on the fact that he wasn’t going to look any better without some pain meds and another twelve hours of rest.

Oh well.

By now, the sound of the coffee pot in the other room is a welcome ding. He uses the cup by the sink to take some pills for his headache, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and makes his way back into the spacious kitchen. The smell of coffee is bold in the air and Sylvain feels a little more awake with it. Though he knows he’ll feel better with caffeine in his system, he takes his time to pour himself a cup.

Thumbing through his phone, he turns something quiet on before going about his normal morning routine as best as he can.

Sylvain hums along to the music between ginger sips of his still hot coffee, pulling out eggs and a container of pre-cut peppers, along with the fresh loaf of bread Ingrid had brought him. He wasn’t feeling too ambitious, this morning, opting for simple. It didn’t require too much brain power to pop some bread in a toaster and crack some eggs into a well-oiled pan with some peppers for flavour.

Simple, yet tasty.

By the time his toast was buttered and the eggs were scrambled, Sylvain was done with his first cup of coffee and was well on his way to feeling like a functioning person. His body wasn’t as heavy and his headache was barely there. Eating was his next favourite priority as he settled into the dining nook, getting comfortable on the plush blue cushions. He inhaled deeply, simultaneously grateful for the food yet dreading the messages he had to answer.

Dimitri first, as that was probably the easiest. Sylvain took a bite of his food as he clicked the first message.

**D: Thank you for the book you lent me. It was quite enjoyable. Would you mind if I lent it to Claude? And if it would not be too much to ask, I wouldn’t mind another recommendation to take up time.**

Sylvain almost forgot that was a thing. That they were a thing? He remembered the book, of course, waiting for Dimitri to tell him how it was. But Claude and Dimitri. Honestly, he didn’t know  _ what _ they were, only that something weird was going on and he was sure to see a picture from Hilda at Christmas when he was busy skiing in the Alps, halfway across the globe, of them kissing under the mistletoe or something equally romantic. Really, he wanted to ask but does have a little more respect than to push on things like that with Dimitri, especially since he holds onto everything precious that he can and Sylvain isn’t willing to be the one to mess up anything as fragile as a budding relationship for him. He knows the guy deserves something nice after everything terrible that has happened to him. His parents, the same car crash fiasco that Glenn was involved in, the pressure of school and the business, therapy, as well as life, itself. Besides, if he had never learnt to be sensitive towards Dimitri and his everything, Ingrid would have given him the longest lecture of his life that probably would have included a powerpoint or something equally obnoxious.

Either way, easy text.

_ S: yeah go ahead. you think he’d like it? idk dude we might have to all have lunch together sometime to talk about it. yanno since you haven’t introduced me and all. hilda won’t either but i think she’s scared i’ll take her best friend lol. _

_ S: oh yeah sorry. i’ll bring something to class on tuesday. i’ve got some books lying around you might like. _

**D: I think you two would actually hit it off splendidly. I’ll let him know you wish to speak about it when he’s done. He’s a quick reader. :)**

**D: Thank you, Sylvain. I look forward to it.**

Alright. Next. Ingrid. She’s his missed call that was somewhere between the bar and his wine-drunk dilemma. He is  _ definitely  _ not calling her back, settling on checking his texts.

**I: What the heck! Why did you leave so early? Normally you’re out forever, aren’t you?**

**I: I’m sorry if I put a lot of pressure on you tonight.**

**I: Dorothea said you looked good, though. She also said we should all go out together again. You, me, her. I think she was going to invite Annette and Felix, too. Maybe somewhere less crowded, though. That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?**

Sylvain can’t help but laugh around the bite of food he has in his mouth, swallowing and setting his fork down to type out a response. And just because he’s a glutton for punishment, he decides that maybe it won’t hurt too much to agree to that.

_ S: yeah, sounds good. sorry for the late reply i guess i was just super tired when i got home. _

_ S: we could do that pizza place. the one on 2nd? _

The response he gets is quick, which surprises him. Normally she’s busy at the bakery, at this hour.

**I: I’ll see what she says and let you know.**

Whatever comes of that, he’ll deal with later. When it comes. Hopefully  _ much  _ later.

Ok, last message. The message of his nightmares.

**Dad: I’ll be out of town next week. If the office needs you, they will be calling you to come in. Do not disappoint me. You know what to do.**

_ S: Sure. I’ll make sure to keep my ringer on. _

This response is also swift, making him grimace when his phone vibrates before he has a chance to set it down and get back to eating.

**Dad: As you should. The Von Varley company’s heiress may also be coming, next week. See to it that you meet with her. She may be a good investment for the future. Do keep that in mind.**

Ah, yes. Just the kind of text Sylvain likes to see. Doesn’t matter what time of day it is or anything, he hates getting messages like this from his father just as much as he could never stand his childhood. Yet he still put on a smile and repressed his trauma and acted like nothing happened - like his brother leaving him in bruises that Ingrid and Dimitri would frown at but say nothing to or the way he was always flaunted around with no choice, just a child being shown off for his cute looks and late-to-be large wallet. The perfect husband, in the eyes of some. No love, though, only use. He wasn’t made for love or born into it or for it.

Sylvain sighs, deciding not to answer that text as he finishes his breakfast, setting the plate in the sink to worry about later. His father can deal with the fact that he doesn’t answer, knowing that he’ll be on his best behaviour because he doesn’t have much of a choice in the matter. Right now, he just wants a little more sleep in the dark confines of his room where he can pull his blackout curtains shut, turn on a fan for some white noise, and slide under warm and heavy blankets for a few more hours before confronting his responsibilities for the weekend. It’s a rest he feels like he deserves, for once, so he takes it.

By the time he wakes up from sleep, it’s well into the afternoon. The sun’s starting to go down, as it’s wont to do in the chilly autumn days that are much too short for Sylvain’s liking.

He gets up, orders food, does his homework, and eats when it comes, finishing his assignment between bites. Afterwards, he showers and figures he’s just too tired to stay up any longer. His exhaustion consumes him and he stays in for the rest of the weekend, much against his normal social habits.

- **x** -

When Monday comes and his first class of the day is over, Sylvain gets a call from the office. They tell him that they’ll need him this afternoon to meet the Von Varley’s daughter, that he’ll need to show her around the office while one of his dad’s men talk about business deals with her father. He’ll do it and doesn’t mind too much, because it’s worlds better than discussing things he really doesn’t care about for a company he wants nothing to do with. 

Sylvain tells them he’ll be there around three when his classes are finished and that he’ll meet her at the front entrance, close to that time.

He finishes his classes for the day, the busiest day he has of the week, and goes to play tour guide.

Sylvain pulls up to the tall building of his family’s business in the middle of crowded downtown, tossing his keys to the valet who probably has his spot memorized right next to his father’s. He’s a couple minutes late, per usual, and there is no one at the front desk except the secretary and a shy girl sitting off to the side in one of the comfortable yet unnecessarily expensive lobby chairs. Only the best for the Gautiers, he supposes. He gives the woman at the front a wave, trying his best not to squint at her nametag when he can’t remember her name for the life of him.

“Hey there, pretty lady.” She rolls her eyes at his greeting. Score. He loves ruining his reputation around here. It’s perfect. “I was told I was meeting someone today? To play tour master and all that.”

“Miss Varley,” she says simply to the girl in the lobby, not even bothering to acknowledge anything else Sylvain said. He finds he likes it that way.

Sylvain watches as the girl stands up. She’s pretty, he can give her that, what with her purple hair and straight cut bangs that frame her face nicely. She’s got on a little makeup in what he assumes is a gesture of presentability that may be enforced by her family, if this shallow business world is anything to go by. She’s fidgeting with her hands, all frantic energy before it seems like she catches herself and grabs her skirt, wrinkling the pretty black silk material. Sylvain steps a little closer and gives her a smile that’s made to hopefully not scare her off. Just a light, gentle, flirty thing. 

“M… Mister Gautier!” she throws out, and the nervousness in her voice gets him. He has to resist the urge to cringe at it. Sylvain really hopes her dad or even his dad didn’t imply that whole marriage thing to this poor girl. She definitely doesn’t deserve that, and he can already tell that she’s much too sweet for a boy like him. He’d absolutely regret breaking her heart.

“Please, call me Sylvain. It’s nice to meet you,” he responds, easy, that flirtatiousness there but tamped down.

“Yes, Mr. Gautier. I’m sorry - ah! I- I mean, Sylvain.” Her voice and eyes drop to the ground and she’s back to silently fidgeting, messing with the strap of her purse across her shoulder. “It’s nice to um, to meet you, too.”

Sylvain laughs at that, so tired of formal greetings despite rarely hearing them. He’s heard enough of them to where he avoids them, avoids being seen by his father and his “friends” as much as possible. Every event they could be found at where they paraded around being gracious while actually having their hands in slimey territory was somewhere Sylvain didn’t want to be. Charity balls weren’t his thing nor were the fancy dinners or business meetings or anything else that involved him being attached to his last name, lest he be using it for some reason. They all ended with drunk wives coming onto him and their annoyed husbands threatening him or men and women trying to push their daughters at him. He’s well known in the business world for being the most eligible bachelor and quick to become successful upon graduation, according to all the magazines that ever want to interview him about his superficial interests and even more superficial ambitions. Half of them are a lie, and he’s become pretty good at those and the smile he puts out there for the rest of the world.

“I suppose it is, huh,” he mumbles through a smile, extending his arm in a gesture of lead. “So, I know I’m supposed to give you a tour, but I think that sounds incredibly boring and I know a good bakery three blocks down, if you’d rather. No one would even know we’re gone,” he says with a wink.

She looks ready to protest until she sees the stern look on the secretary’s face that is directed at Sylvain more than her. It sends her into a bit of a panic, anyways, and she looks as eager to get out of here as Sylvain feels. His skin itches and he’s ready to crawl out of his nice clothes each time he steps foot within a mile radius of this place. She takes his arm quickly, though, small hand hooking at the crook of his elbow with an equally small smile.

“Please. I really do like sweets.”

- **x** -

Their walk is quiet, and for once, Sylvain is okay with it. There has been a lot of chaos in his mind, this weekend, and it’s nice to spend time with someone, as new as they may be to him, who doesn’t seem to want him for his money and his name and is also just as content with companionable silence.

They make the walk in about ten minutes and Sylvain holds the door open when they get there. The girl finally lets go of his arm and goes in, looking a little more relaxed as her gaze travels over the small and quaint interior. Inside, everything is painted in calming creams and trimmed in heavy brown woods. The pastry case is full, as always, a wide assortment of delicious looking treats inside. There are flowers on all of the tables and plants hanging along the walls, as well as a bookshelf that lines one wall with knick knacks and a variety of fairytale seeming books to read.

Sylvain looks up to the register, seeing Lysithea there, today. He gives her a wave. She looks at him with that striking lavender gaze, as if wondering why he has someone with him, for once. They don’t talk a whole lot when he comes, but she knows who he is and what his family owns and that he typically comes here after stressful encounters with his father. He’s only had to say daddy issues once to her with a terribly hollow laugh before she nodded and accepted it, at that. Sometimes, he thinks she might understand the sentiment, but he doesn’t really get up to asking.

“Hey, Lysithea. What’s the special today?”

He knows it’s probably her world famous lemon cake, because that’s normally what’s there on Mondays. He knows because Mondays are the day he normally gets called into the office for something or another and ends in a lecture from his father because he just loves making Sylvain’s week miserable. It’s normally better by Wednesday when he can vent a little to Dimitri over lunch, but only if he’s having a good day because Sylvain hates throwing him off. Dimitri listens well and things get better as Friday comes, when he goes to the local bar he likes. And each week passes smoothly until his father finds something else to get on him about, because he can never seem to do a damn thing right in his eyes.

“Hello? Earth to Sylvain?”

He’s startled from his thoughts as Lysithea waves in front of his face. He blinks at her from where he’d been staring at his companion looking at everything in the bakery case. Sylvain puts on a practiced smile, giving an apologetic one-shouldered shrug.

“Sorry. Lemon cake, right? I’ll do a slice of it and a mug of your bergamot and whatever the lady wants,” he responds, pulling out his wallet.

Purple raises from where it has been staring into the case, as if it’s the most difficult choice in the world. She looks confused and conflicted.

“I don’t know what to get! There are way too many things,” she whines out, hands on her cheeks. “Oh… Bernie, how will you ever choose?”

Sylvain raises an eyebrow more at the nickname she gives herself than the fact that she  _ talks _ to herself. He opts to lean over her shoulder, pointing out a couple things within the case that he knows he enjoys. Things that are probably a safe bet.

“The apple turnovers are good. Perfect sugar on top. Or like… if you wanted something creamier, the puff pastries are delicious. Maybe the crumb cake, if you’d like cake, instead? I think it goes better with coffee, though.”

She makes a thoughtful sound, biting at her thumb as she contemplates what to get.

“Maybe… the puff pastry? But the one with the strawberries, please,” she decides.

“You heard her, Lysithea.”

She just shakes her head at Sylvain, busying herself at keying it in on the register.

“Anything to drink? Tea or coffee?” Lysithea asks, head tilted towards the other girl.

“Can I do the Albinean berry blend, please?”

“I’ll bring it right out.”

Sylvain pays with the card he has had pulled out of his wallet and gives Lysithea a small  _ thank you _ . He lets his companion pick the table, one near a corner where she can sit and watch the entire shop. As they’re sitting down together, it dawns on him that no one even told him her first name. He settles into his chair a little more, cheek resting against his palm.

“So…” he draws out, “This may be awkward, but maybe we should introduce ourselves? I don’t think anyone actually told me your name.” 

“Oh!” she exclaims, colouring a soft shade of pink. He watches as she smooths her hands over her skirt, awkwardly laughing at the situation. “I’m sorry. I’m Bernadetta. Did… did no one really tell you?”

“No, funny enough. You think they’d tell me the first name of the person I’m supposed to hang out with. Seems kind of stupid, right?”

She nods, smiling up at Lysithea as she brings over their tea and pastries. Sylvain stirs the cream Lysithea brought on the side into his tea. God, gotta love her. She knows just how he likes his tea after being here too many times. That, and Mercedes has probably said a couple things to her about him. Childhood friends and all.

Sylvain watches as Bernadetta brings the tea up to her mouth, inhaling deeply, whispering something about how good it smells. She lowers the cup again, relishing the warmth against her palms as she glances back up to him. He gives her another one of his easy smiles, twirling the fork in his hand before spearing a bite of lemon cake. He pops it in his mouth with a groan, the fluffiness and the perfect balance of sweet and tart melting on his tongue.  _ Goddess _ , he loves the cream filling she uses in between the two layers and the delicate dusting of powdered sugar on top. Should he be allowed, he would definitely be able to eat a whole pan of this.

“So good, ugh,” he groans, scooping up more. “You want a bite?”

He knows whatever this peace between them is it might be fragile, but he can’t help but push the boundaries a  _ little  _ bit. Sylvain figures she’s probably an interesting girl, that maybe they could actually get along despite that he knows deep down what their fathers are probably doing trying to set them up. 

Bernadetta looks at him warily, hands clutching a little more firmly around the delicate pink and white floral china. Her thumb rubs at the gilded rim, biting at the inside of her cheek.

“Are you sure? I mean… that’s your cake, and all. I- I do have my own, Sylvain.” 

He laughs, something airy as he holds out the bite he has prepared on his fork.

“Yeah, go ahead. It’s Lysithea’s special. She doesn’t make it every day, and if you don’t try it today, how are you going to know whether you like it or not unless you come back another time?” he asks, giving the fork the tiniest bob. “Promise it’s good and that I really don’t mind. I can’t tell you how many slices of this stuff I’ve had before this.”

She’s still hesitant, fingers pressing into her cup as she leans forward to take the bite from his fork. He belatedly realizes he probably could have just passed his plate to her, considering she has her own fork and everything. Just finds it’s a little more fun to feed her, himself. If someone else were there to see it, he could only imagine the tone in his father’s voice once he’d heard about it. He knows the whispers that go around about him, that started overseas and followed him here in his own strange self-sabotaging path.

Sylvain finds he likes the way her eyes flutter shut and her lashes fan against her cheeks in the same superficial way he feels about every girl; cheeks which are still flushed a lovely shade of red. She’s careful when she takes her bite of the lemon cake, and he observes the way her hands relax around her cup after taking it. Bernadetta chews and swallows the cake before she eases back into her own chair, boldness draining out of her before she’s lighting back up. Her smile widens and he thinks that she’s practically sparkling. She nods quickly, daintily wiping a crumb from her mouth with her napkin.

“That  _ is  _ really good! That’s … wow, that’s really enjoyable! I think I would like to take a slice of that home with me. And maybe… um, next time my dad has me come visit, we can come back together?”

Sylvain can’t help but laugh again, setting the fork down before picking up his own tea. He idly swirls the spoon in it before setting it on the saucer provided, bringing it up to his lips.

“Maybe you should tell me more about yourself before we go on a second date. Sound like a plan?”

Bernadetta immediately lights up at that, red to her ears as she hides behind her own cup. When she talks, it’s a little too loud for the empty cafe they’re in.

“I- I’m sorry for being too presumptuous!”

Sylvain swallows the drink of tea he’d taken, waving a hand with a wide smile. Maybe one that’s a little more real than he’s had all weekend. Her energy is infectious, even if it’s a frantic kind he isn’t used to. If he’d been dragging his feet through the mud all day, she’s a brightness he’ll take.

“No, hey. Not at all. Sorry, that’s - you know what, nevermind. Let’s start over. You know my name, Sylvain. You know who my dad is, I guess. Not that it really matters. I’d rather ignore all that family stuff so we can be friends.” He bites his lip to hide the width of his smile, trying to tamp it down. “I’ll tell you something I like, then you tell me what you like?”

She nods quietly, still flushed, drinking her tea and watching him with apprehension. He knows he has that kind of effect on people, and it’s something he chooses to swallow instead of being offended by it.

“I like reading, if the book is good. My best friend and I borrow books back and forth a lot. I like this place, it’s delicious. Nothing will top Lysithea’s cake except maybe the pastries Mercedes or Ingrid make. I’ve got a pretty big sweet tooth, if you can’t tell.” He pauses, watching the swirling cream coloured tea in his cup as if it has the answers for something else that’s safe to settle on. “I like my anthropology classes. It’s my minor. Kind of tried to pick my own thing since my dad wasn’t really going to budge on anything but business for my main studies, yanno? I’ve always liked history, so thought it’d be pretty cool to do something with it but not like in a ‘ _ I want to read books _ ’ kind of way. I’m more of a hands-on person.” 

Sylvain shrugs when he finishes, like what he likes isn’t really that big of a deal. His major isn’t special, his minor less special. No one really cared much about his interests, since he was always so busy adhering to what everyone else wanted him to be. It was easier that way, to pretend like there wasn’t a lot that mattered and just to do what others needed, what they thought was necessary, what they figured he was supposed to be like. His friends were the only ones that ever really entertained him in anything, but he still listened to their dreams more than he ever let onto his. 

There wasn’t ever really a chance for Sylvain to dream about what he wanted, anyways. It was always instilled into him what he  _ should _ want, even if it wasn’t what he  _ knew _ he wanted. Honestly, it’s gone on so long that he isn’t really sure what he wants for himself, anymore. He’s been fit into a mold that was made for him when his father found out what his brother was  _ really _ like. Each day was the same, each step towards a path charted for him, each moment in his childhood and teenage years and adulthood steering him towards taking over the company, tethered as a slave to a business he has no desire for, tethered to the life he didn’t ask to be born into.

Sometimes, he was envious of his friends who didn’t have to worry about these kinds of struggles. He  _ knew  _ he had no right to complain about the comfortable life he was given, the roof over his head, the money lining his pockets and sitting heavy in his bank account. He  _ knows _ he has no right to complain about the kind of people brought into his life because of it. Dimitri with his quiet respect and Ingrid with her fierce loyalty and kindness. Still, he can’t help but think people like Mercedes or Dorothea who grew up with less but who learned to appreciate it more have it better, in a way.

Distracted, that’s what he is. There’s someone in front of him asking for his attention, and he should be giving it, like the good boy he’s been raised to be. He’s happy his smile hasn’t fallen off his face, even if it has dimmed a tidge. That it has stuck. So he busies himself with a drink of his tea to cover the lapse in attentiveness, tilting his head and motioning a hand towards Bernadetta.

“Your turn.”

She’s still nervous when she begins to speak, and Sylvain wonders if that nervousness never leaves her or if it’s a permanent trait of hers, like it’s always simmering under the surface. He knows what it’s like to hold something like that right underneath his skin, ready to claw its way out but keeping it smashed down and locked up. He likes to think he’s pretty good at keeping that anger pushed low, but sometimes can’t help when it bubbles over.

“I um, well. I also like sweets. And cooking, I think that’s really fun! There are so many recipes to make, and the kitchen staff at home let me help them a lot when my father isn’t around,” she says, warmth beginning to sneak into her tone. Her shoulders relax as she takes another drink of her tea, smile pulling at the edges of her lips. “I also study business, but I go to Enbarr University. That’s where my father sent me. I think some of my old friends actually go to school with you. But ..” she trails off, looking contemplatively down at the pastry she began to pick at while Sylvain talked. “I really wish I could have studied creative writing. There’s just something so… I don’t know, so  _ fun _ about being able to write your own story and come up with fantastical characters and a plot that never ends.”

She’s shining, again, and Sylvain can’t help but smile around his bite of food.

“Do you write, anyways?” he asks once he’s cleared his mouth.

“Well…” She looks off to the side, twiddling with her fork before popping a strawberry in her mouth, as if that can distract from the conversation. Her voice is small when she speaks again, and she doesn’t meet Sylvain’s inquisitive and interested gaze. “Sometimes I do. I’ve… actually been writing a story. I’m pretty far into it!” And she begins to get a little more excitable, beginning to talk with her hands now that she’s free of tea-wear. She’s waving the fork around as she livens up, and Sylvain finds it incredibly endearing. “It’s about a heroine that goes on all of these adventures and gets stronger and is able to live out all of her dreams. She has so many of them! Dreams, adventures, places to go. Oh, I really hope it’ll be a lovely story when I finish it.”

Bernadetta’s got this dreamy look on her face, and Sylvain is good at destroying those things.

“Would you let me read it, sometime?”

He watches as her face falls quickly, chewing on her bottom lip. 

“Are you sure you like reading things like that?”

“Yeah, of course,” he smiles, broad and sunny. “I like supporting the things my friends do, anyways. What use am I if I’m not even doing that?”

She laughs, something small behind her hand before she nods.

“Well, maybe.”

“I’m sure it’s awesome, Bernie. It’s gotta be the best story  _ ever _ .”

- **x** -

The rest of their tea “date” goes relatively well, up until Bernadetta gets a call from her father telling her that she needs to make it back to the front of the building in the next thirty minutes because they’re almost done with their meeting. They finish quickly and grab a slice of lemon cake to go before they make it out the front door. Sylvain walks her back to his family’s business and sneaks them both in the back door, both of them full of giggles because Sylvain doesn’t think he’s done this since he was a teenager and regularly snuck away from each responsibility piled on his then too-young shoulders. Anymore, he just comes and goes through the front door and doesn’t care what kind of impression he makes. He’s got enough mind to take Bernadetta in a way that no one will see her, since he feels that her reputation can at least be preserved. They make it up front a few minutes before her father ends up coming down to the lobby from the elevators, all smiles as they keep talking about their favourite books. Sylvain only looks up from where he’s focused on Bernadetta when her father clears his throat, settling a firm hand on her shoulder. He watches the way she freezes and tamps down the flicker of anger he feels that someone be so  _ rude _ to someone so sweet and so obviously fragile.

Still, he gives Bernadetta’s father his best smile and holds out his hand for a shake.

“Thank you for letting me guide your daughter around. I think we really managed to hit it off. It’s a shame she goes to Enbarr U. It would have been nice for us to meet sooner,” he jokes.

Her father is stern where he shakes Sylvain’s hand, not even bothering to return the smile. He pulls back just as quick as he reaches out, giving a nod.

“Sounds like you’ll have to be meeting again, soon.” There’s something approving in his tone. Just barely. It makes Sylvain feel like his suspicions were confirmed.

He’s not much of a concern to Sylvain, either way, and he turns his attention back to the only one in this room that probably deserves it. He gives Bernadetta another smile, one which she returns in an albeit shaky manner.

“I totally forgot to ask, but we should exchange numbers, if you don’t mind. I’d love to get tea again.”

There’s a lot there that he leaves unspoken. That he’d just like to get to  _ know _ her, treat her like a person and become friends. Would he want anything else in the world besides that? No way.

“Yes, please. I- I would like that.”

- **x** -

Bernadetta and Sylvain exchange phone numbers. She sends him a text on his boring Tuesday.

**B: I’d really like if you read my story. Can I have your email to send it to you?**

_ S: absolutely. you act like i could say no to that. it’s - _

**B: Ok!!! Maybe you can tell me what you think about it next time? :)**

_ S: i’ll be waiting! _

It’s the only thing that brightens his otherwise slow day. He has class with Dimitri, gives him another book from his collection, goes about his normal routine, and returns home. He waits for Wednesday to roll around, and when it does, he’s looking forward to it more than anything.

Dimitri, his true ray of hope in an otherwise bleak week.

They have their other class of the week together. Sylvain drives them to the restaurant they plan on, like always, considering how wary Dimitri is of driving, despite what happened years ago. Sylvain never complains, since he’d rather Dimitri be comfortable and things be as easy as possible between them. He’d like to think he’s an expert in Dimitri’s comfort, especially since he’s gone out of his way to ensure it for so long, and only continues to do so.

Dimitri settles into the booth they get sat at, picking the side where he has less people at his back. Only having one good eye kind of prevents him from seeing things as clearly, so he has some measure of self-preservation and maybe a low level of paranoia when it comes to where he places himself in public spaces. Normally it isn’t too big of a deal, but sitting down in one spot for an extended period of time where he can’t see much can sometimes get to him, especially on a bad day. 

Sylvain lets him pick his seat before he sits down across from him, giving him one of his rare genuine smiles. They’re normally saved for Dimitri and Ingrid and Mercedes and somehow they all get them out of him even on his off days.

Dimitri returns the smile, a shy thing, flipping to the extra spicy section of the menu that just happens to be his favourite.

“We haven’t been here in awhile. It’s a good surprise, if I’m being honest,” he says.

Sylvain just laughs, opening his own menu. He’s feeling something loaded with vegetables, today. Spicy, too. He likes when it burns his tongue, but maybe not as much as Dimitri. 

“Yeah, it has been. Thought it’d be a good idea to come here again. I know how much you love the food, and you haven’t looked as in love with some of the other places we’ve been to lately. Yanno, we could totally come here every week and I would never get tired of it,” he replies, tacking on an honest admission because Ingrid’s lecture still has him in a somewhat sentimental mood. “I wouldn’t care. I like our weekly lunch ritual.”

The tips of Dimitri’s ears colour, at that, and he looks down at his menu to avoid Sylvain’s honest gaze.

“I do, as well.”

Sylvain can’t help but laugh again, an airy thing as he nods. 

“Good. You better, cause I don’t know what I’d do without you or this.”

Dimitri gives him a hum of acknowledgement, focusing on the menu to decide on something. They both pick what they want, order when the waiter comes around, and settle into easy conversation before and during their meal. Sylvain tells Dimitri about how his dad set him up on another one of those stupid blind dates, but the girl didn’t turn out to be too bad. Not someone he’d want to settle with, but he doesn’t really think he’s ready for that, anyways. Dimitri gives him a small frown when he tells him about it, always exasperated by the way Sylvain’s father can’t seem to let it go when it comes to him wedding someone to carry on his legacy, or however Sylvain typically puts it when he talks about it. He makes it sound like they’re in some period drama, and he has no choice but to marry some damsel to have her children and carry on the family name, like they don’t live in a time where stuff like that is becoming less and less common each day.

Dimitri knows all about Sylvain’s pains in that area. He didn’t really know a lot about it when they were younger, of course. Sylvain was always the older one, taking care of all of their friends and watching over them with his arms ready to open, should they need it. Dimitri used to run to him frequently, in their childhood days, when the thunder would crack outside and the rains would pour heavy and he needed Sylvain to give him a hug and tell him it was going to be alright. It wasn’t that he was ever a crybaby, just that he sometimes needed the little bits of comfort Sylvain was good at giving when he felt too much, was a little too sensitive. It didn’t last for long, though, or at least -- until Dedue came.

Dedue was another force on their lives. A good one, at that. Good for Dimitri, good for Sylvain, good for everyone in their group. One covered in sad memories and reluctance and a warm heart that was slow to let anyone in. He came from an old family of wealth, from overseas, that Dimitri’s father knew. A family well versed in trade, before their country was attacked by a neighboring one. Dedue witnessed the slaughter of his people, his family, his friends, narrowly escaping across borders and sleeping in refugee camps until a liason of Dimitri’s family reached out at the news and found him.

Dimitri’s father brought him over, gave him a home and a place at Dimitri’s side where he became his eternal protector. Dimitri had terrible dreams of it, from the stories Dedue told that he insisted he not tell. But Dimitri was more insistent and stubborn and Dedue was soft to the blonde, as if he was a prince that must be obeyed and watched over. He wanted to know of the tragedy that happened, wanted to know every detail because it wasn’t fair if one of his friends suffered without a shoulder to lean on. His heart was too big for that, too golden. Sylvain thinks that was the last time he’s seen Dimitri come to him for a shoulder to cry on when his own tender heart and feelings became too overwhelming. Anymore, it’s up to Sylvain to shove his way into Dimitri’s space to help, bring him down to earth. He’s always been the grounding one of their friends. When Dimitri lost his parents, when Mercedes was shaken meeting her brother again, when Ingrid lost Glenn.

Sylvain has always seen through Dimitri, because of this. Because he’s been the one closest to him through each tragedy - his parents, the car accident that took his eye and Glenn, his fated friendship with Dedue, the way he suffered and dreamed painful dreams that woke him up in cold sweats and tears and gasping breaths and the hands of ghosts pulling at him, whispering in his ear. It took awhile for Dimitri to come back to earth after all of it, but he did. One step at a time. And Sylvain was still there with his friendship, hand outstretched for Dimitri when he was ready.

And Dimitri reached out to Sylvain. He really did. Or tried to. It took time to mend the fractured edges of their friendship where they didn’t know where to stand with each other; where Sylvain didn’t know where to stand with him, because he didn’t want to traumatize Dimitri more than he already had been with his terrible ways and fake cheer. He found ways to mould himself back into Dimitri’s life, to work with it, to try and be sensitive like they had been before he’d grown up and became someone no one recognized, not even himself.

Dimitri started to see through him, after that. When he came back to his own senses to start noticing the things around him, more. Sylvain had to give it to him - he was pretty perceptive when he allowed himself to be, even if it made Sylvain shy away, made him try to avoid topics he didn’t want to talk about but slowly, ever so slowly, Dimitri got him to open up and tell him things, even against Sylvain’s insistence that he didn’t want to burden him after all he’s gone through. But of course, he got him with the whole - you were there for me, so now it’s time for me to be there for you. Sylvain still tries to keep things superficial, only scratching the surface of the true pot of trouble he feels brewing deep in his stomach that sometimes makes him want to vomit and rip at his throat to get the acidic burn of his problems to go away, but sometimes he’s left a little too vulnerable, a little too sentimental, curled up on Dimitri’s couch with a movie playing and his favourite ice cream and favourite snacks, the room dark enough that he feels less picked apart by that single, bright, watchful eye, a little more spilling out each time.

He’s thankful, though, that Dimitri doesn’t push. Doesn’t push in the way that Ingrid tells it to him directly until he snaps. Doesn’t push in the way that Mercedes ends up doing, even if it’s absolutely unintentional with her sympathetic gaze and even more sympathetic touch when she tells him everything will be alright and he starts to believe it. Maybe that’s why things have been so comfortable between them, especially as of late. They share when they need to, back off when they don’t, yet still come together in the middle with a mutual understanding that they’re both there for each other, even if it hadn't always been that way. Even if Sylvain is still the rock of their group, despite everyone not coming to him in the ways they used to when they were young and he was two or three years older and so damn important to their comfort and tears.

It’s not the biggest deal, after all, or so Sylvain likes to tell himself. There’s a part of him that was always proud he was the one everyone came to, that he could be the strong one for everyone; but there’s also always been a part of him wishing for someone to do that for him, as much as he won’t allow it. These thoughts are enough to get lost in as he sits there and people watches, the silence between him and Dimitri easy as they wait for their food. 

Not much time passes before the waiter is bringing out their food, and both boys are lighting up at what’s in front of him. Sylvain has one of his favourites and Dimitri has something new off the menu that’s right and spicy. They dig in with little words, not talking again until they’re about halfway through. Dimitri is the first to speak, wiping his mouth before he does.

“Ingrid told me she actually went out with you.”

Sylvain can’t help the crooked smile he wears, head tilting. “Yeah?”

“I was… quite surprised. What was the occasion? She didn’t deign to tell me too much.”

If his smile could get more crooked, it would.

“Oh, you know. Dorothea invited her to a show at the bar down the street from my flat. You know her. She won’t go out unless she absolutely has to. I was just there for moral support, that’s all.”

Dimitri raises a brow, silently urging Sylvain on as he chews another bite of his food.

“They’re into each other, I think. Ingrid just wanted me there since, well. I’m normally there on a Friday. The band that played was good. I think they were called the Blue Lions? I’d never met anyone in the band before, so I’m not sure if you have,” he goes on, waving his spoon around a bit. He taps it to his bottom lip in thought. “Who was it. Linhardt, Caspar, Annette, and Felix?” Maybe he’s playing a little bit dumb, because his mind keeps tripping over Felix. Felix, with his dark hair and sharp gaze and long fingers wrapped around a short glass with something strong in it that Sylvain wanted to taste off his lips.

Ugh, not now, brain. _ Not now _ .

Sylvain barely catches the way Dimitri seems to stiffen at the mention of their names, causing Sylvain to tilt his head again.

“What? Do you know one of them?”

And Dimitri. Poor, poor Dimitri who is too honest for his own good, only takes a sip of his water and nods. He’s quiet for a few more moments, like he’s trying to figure out what he should say. Like he has to carefully word it or the situation will spiral out of his hands.

“I knew Felix.”

“You  _ knew _ him? I think he’s pretty alive, still. You talk like he’s dead,” he laughs.

Not the smartest choice of words, if the wince Dimitri gives is anything to go by. Sylvain can’t help the small frown that pulls at his features when he does, reaching out to gently touch his wrist. Dimitri lets him, but only for a moment.

“Sorry, you know me. You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to.”

Dimitri shakes his head and sighs, stirring his remaining food absently.

“Our fathers knew each other. I was friends with Felix by extent of knowing Glenn. We were friends through middle school, though things were..  _ strange _ , in high school, especially after--” Sylvain nods. He knows without Dimitri saying it, using that nod to encourage him. “-- well. We had a falling out, I suppose. I haven’t seen him since then. I don’t believe he talked to many, after that. I’m… I’m glad to know he seems well.”

There’s history. Oh, there’s  _ history _ , and maybe Sylvain should feel a little more awkward about fawning over Dimitri’s ex-friend ( _ best friend? _ His brain supplies), but he doesn’t. Instead, he’s a little more incredulous that he never heard about him or met him.

“Well, I mean - he seems like it. Looked good to me, at least.” And Dimitri shoots him a withering look, at that. Sylvain shrugs sheepishly, holding a hand up. “He’s pretty. Maybe I just can’t help it. Doesn’t matter, anyways, I think he said a whole two words to me before I ended up leaving and let Ingrid do her own thing for the rest of the night. Can’t say I really got to know the guy. I only saw him on stage and for like… a minute afterwards.”

Dimitri hums thoughtfully, staring at Sylvain with that lone blue eye like he’s trying to figure out just what it is Sylvain might be getting at. He’s sure he knows. He’s never been hard to figure out when it comes to being interested in people, even if they are all superficial and selfishly used.

“He’s a good person,” is all Dimitri says, the ghost of a smile on his lips before he turns back to his food.

The rest of their meal is relatively silent, which doesn’t necessarily bother Sylvain. He generally understands when Dimitri needs his quiet time and is willing to give it. If anything passes between them, it’s about the book Sylvain lent him or that he’d given it to Claude, and Claude was already halfway through it, telling Dimitri that Sylvain needed to hand over a couple more of the novels he liked. They talked about class, about an assignment coming up and how some of their other classes were. Typical topics that were safe between both of them yet not hindering their close friendship.

They finished their food, paid, and stepped out the door into the crisp autumn air. It was starting to get cool, already, and Sylvain wasn’t sure he was ready for winter. He smiles over at Dimitri, pulling his jacket a little closer around him.

“See you next week?”

Dimitri nodded, adjusting his own scarf. He seemed to pause, though, suddenly reaching for something in his pocket.

“Oh, before I forget. Claude gave me an invite for you. The Halloween party.”

He hands over the invite, and Sylvain takes it and pockets it. 

“Wow, can’t believe Hilda didn’t get to me quick enough. Normally she’s the one that gives me my invite,” he jokes, burying hands into his own pockets.

Dimitri gives him a shrug and a small smile, fiddling with his scarf again.

“I suppose Claude is excited to meet you, is all. I’ll let him know you’re coming, if you’d like.”

Sylvain just nods, starting to turn. 

“Yeah, please do. I’ll see you later, Dima. Take care of yourself!”

- **x** -

The rest of his day is lazy. He does some homework, makes dinner, sleeps.

Friday comes and his routine is just as normal. Wake up, get ready, eat, and drag his feet all the way to class. He’s a little later than normal, slipping into a seat on the edge of a row further back in the lecture hall. It’s a large auditorium, one he thinks he’s had a class or two in before in all of his university career. He remembers it, for the most part, just can’t recall what classes they were. The professor is at the front, talking to a student who is showing him something, and he sinks into his seat and pulls out his laptop to take notes for whatever boring subject they’re going to be talking about today. He’d know, if he looked at the syllabus to remind himself.

Sylvain gazes around the room when the lecture gets particularly boring. Just people watching. He catches a girl getting her gum stuck on her nose when she pops a particularly large bubble, another guy very much asleep, someone frantically trying to write each word down that comes out of their professor’s mouth. Probably some eager freshman thinking they need all of that information when they won’t even need a fraction of it, like every class ever. And then -

Felix.

His eyes land on him two rows ahead of him and to the right, chewing on the end of his mechanical pencil and scribbling down a note here or there in his notebook. Sylvain looks at his fingers, the way they nimbly hold his pencil, the way they tuck a strand of hair behind his ear that has slipped out of the messy ponytail he has his hair pulled back in. He watches as he writes and glares at the screen a little, like he’s trying to determine if this part of the powerpoint is important or if the professor is going off on one of his usual tangents that have nothing to do with what they need to know. It’s distracting. It’s a welcome distraction.

Sylvain’s completely forgotten about his own notes, for now,  _ distracted _ . He catches something every once in awhile, but can’t help the way his gaze skitters back to Felix when he catches movement from the corner of his eye.

The rest of the lecture proceeds the same way, trying to figure out how he never noticed him before, especially considering how often Sylvain people-watches in the middle of class. Of all people, how had he not noticed Felix? Felix, with his pale skin and long fingers and pretty inky black hair and striking amber gaze.

Felix.

_ Felix _ , who keeps plaguing his mind since that stupid concert, no matter how many times he’s told himself he’ll probably never see him again, never talk to him again. The person who makes him question his loose loyalty to sleeping around and staying unattached, whom he might be interested in and has thought of more than anyone, for whatever strange, gods-damned reason. He wishes he could figure it out. The why of it all. Why he has had one person on his mind when it has never happened before.

When class ends a couple minutes early, Sylvain is slow to shove his laptop back into his bag but is hurrying the second Felix is walking by, not even sparing a second glance towards him. But Sylvain notices him - Sylvain sees him. It’s all he’s been able to notice each minute that has ticked by. He’s quick, shooting out of his seat and waving a rushed apology at the person he cuts off as he almost trips his way up the stairs in an effort to catch up to him.

Sylvain catches him outside of the lecture hall, almost around the corner and out of sight. He’s quick, though, from the morning runs he sometimes takes with Dimitri and Ingrid. Darting his hand out, he barely catches hold of Felix's elbow, cheeks dusted pink and a wide smile on his lips.

“Hey, wait. Hold on a second.”

He feels breathless, even moreso with the ferocity contained just under Felix’s skin that shines in his eyes when he whips around, jerking his arm out of Sylvain’s tentative and barely there grasp. There’s a frown on his face, brows furrowed, a few strands of hair falling into his eyes. Sylvain absolutely resists the urge to reach out and clear them.

Felix is quick to hiss out a, “What do you want?” before it dawns on him who is in front of him, a flicker of recognition in his otherwise annoyed expression. His arms cross, still looking pissed but not quite meeting Sylvain’s eyes. At least he got him to stop. That’s enough, for Sylvain. For now.

“Do you need something?” Felix tries again, impatiently shifting his weight to his other foot.

“Um, well…” And Sylvain is faltering, rubbing the back of his neck in a habit he hasn’t lost since childhood. He looks to the floor tiles for his excuse, his words. So interesting. They need to be updated. 

“Well?” 

Sylvain looks back up quickly. Clearly, Felix is still annoyed, but maybe a little less so than when he first was caught.

“I just didn’t know we were in the same class, I guess. Thought I should say hi, since we met the other night. That’s ok, right?” He laughs, adjusting his bag over his shoulder, barreling on. “I guess when I saw you I wanted to ask if maybe you wanted to get coffee or something?”

Felix snorts, maybe a little amused at Sylvain’s antics. Or his stupidity. He could guess it’d be either, in all honesty. People have laughed at him for a variety of things, after all.

“Sorry, I’m a little busy. Fencing practice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to cry about Sylvix with someone ... my Twitter @kazujerk is always open.


	3. a toast and a spirit.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Halloween, which means Claude and Hilda's (basically) famous Halloween party. There's music, there's dancing, and Sylvain sure does a lot of people watching. He absolutely has eyes for one Felix Hugo Fraldarius.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this ended up really long lol. I don't think I have a lot to say. You'll get a lot of Sylvain's relationship with Mercedes and Hilda in this chapter and finally, FINALLY more interaction with Felix.
> 
> There IS mention of alcohol use and childhood abuse.
> 
> Next chapter will have mature content and the next after will have explicit content, as a heads up!
> 
> Like always, thank you for reading. <3

Finally, it’s that week. _That_ week. The week of Claude and Hilda’s yearly famous Halloween party. Hilda tried to give Sylvain another invite the week prior when they ran into each other at the bakery Lysithea works at and he laughed, telling her that Claude already made Dimitri pass on an invite, that she missed out and was beat to the punch. Hilda good naturedly rolled her eyes at that, saying something about them being love birds and of _course_ Claude wanted to meet Dimitri’s best friend. Sylvain jokes that that was the only reason he was invited and she reaches across the table they’re spending their afternoon at to lovingly smear some whipped cream from her latte on his cheek in a fit of retaliation with a giggle. 

The week leading up to the party is as equally boring as the rest of his month has been. No assignments besides a lab in one of his anthropology classes on artifact time period placement, which he gets done quickly since it’s all stuff he happens to remember from the build up of each class before this. He has his weekly lunch with Dimitri, says hi to Felix briefly on Friday, and ends up at home after classes with a fresh and flippant text from Hilda.

_H: hey hottie what are u wearing tomorrow?_

Sylvain snorts, typing out a quick reply.

**S: what? you’re not going to ask me what i’m wearing NOW? that’s just rude.**

_H: fiiiine what are u wearing? ;)_

**S: oh you know. these jeans that make my ass look great and like 100 more layers because it’s already cold as hell out. sexy right?**

_H: ooo so very_

**S: who allowed the cold to come in today anyways? i hope it’s warmer this weekend.**

_H: ugh for real! if i cant wear my costume ill be so mad_

**S: so what are you wearing?**

_H: well its a surprise and i asked first_

**S: well, honestly? i have no clue lol. so there’s that. maybe i should just be a sexy werewolf or something.**

_H: hmmm maybe more like a modern day vampire? or u could be a generic serial killer or jason or something bet no one could keep their hands off u if u were just THAT alluring lmao ready to pounce and kill_

He blinks at his screen, biting his bottom lip. Too bad Sylvain only wanted the hands of _one_ person on him, and he could picture him clear as day. Could picture the way he held his pencil in a firm grip as he took notes in the few rows in front of Sylvain on the days he was later to class and got stuck further back. Could picture the carelessly careful way he tucked hair behind his ear with slim fingers when it was in his eyes or when he would pull the too-stretched out hair tie out of his bun only to put it back up in some semblance of more put together that was actually just as messy. Could picture how he looked with that sharp and unwavering gaze on Sylvain when he caught him staring for far too long.

He truly had it bad for someone he didn’t really know.

In the end, he was totally clueless on what to wear to the Halloween party. Vampire, werewolf, something classic? Was a serial killer classic? A clown? He felt like one. He was sure to look ridiculous, no matter what it was he wore. It wasn’t until college that he was able to dress up for Halloween, anyways. Trick-or-treating or even the holiday, itself, was a little too outside of the box for the Gautier family. And maybe his father was a little too prude and religious-seeming for that. It’d explain why he reacted the way he did towards Miklan, if Sylvain really wanted to open that can of worms and think about it for too long and too hard. Witches and goblins and ghosts were topics well avoided as he grew up, even though it often felt like he grew up around all of them.

He tapped aimlessly at his phone screen in mindless response to Hilda, lost in thought as he tried to come up with something. He _did_ have the rest of the week, after all.

**S: nah. idk i’ll figure something out. i’ll be ravishing so tell lorenz he better bring his best costume game. if you have any really good ideas that will top him, let me know. i need all i can get.**

Her response is immediate.

_H: you got it. <3 _

He’ll figure something out, right? It’s just a Halloween costume, anyways. There’s no way it can be _that_ big of a deal or even _that_ hard, for that matter.

- **x** -

Turns out, it _is_ hard. Sylvain never thought figuring out something that seemed so simple would be so difficult. He was good at puzzles and chess and complex archaeological identifications, yet this? This was going to destroy him.

He asks what Dimitri’s wearing and if he’s heard what anyone else is wearing (like Dimitri even talks to very many people outside of their friend group) in what feels like a last ditch effort for any scrap of an idea. Dimitri just gives Sylvain a sympathetic shrug because he doesn’t know. He assumes Claude will be dressing Dimitri up because this isn’t something Dimitri is really good at, either, and that’s ok. At least they’re in the same boat.

Sylvain goes through the rest of the week casually, trying not to give it too much thought. He has class with Dimitri, they get lunch together. He goes into the office on a Thursday, which isn’t even close to normal, but it’s just so his dad can make him do some inane paperwork that has him losing brain cells each second before he tells him how good his meeting with the Von Varleys went and good on Sylvain for maybe finding a girl worth his time. It’s the worst kind of compliment he can get from his father but maybe, _probably_ , the only one he’s ever going to get. He swallows it bitterly with his best pretend smile and it tastes like the unsweetened tea long gone cold that he’d left on his desk the other day, leaving an aftertaste he can’t get rid of. It’s punctuated by his father telling him he already booked the plane tickets and resort stay he does every year with a thinly veiled suggestion that he take Bernadetta instead of Ingrid, even though he knows damn well that it’s their friendly tradition to go together every year. He suggests it only so that they get to know each other better. Sylvain just laughs at this. Only a little, and keeps it simple as he _couldn’t do that to Ingrid_. He visits the bakery after and Lysithea isn’t there, but Mercedes sure is, and she comes around the counter to give him a big, sincere, comforting hug the moment she sees him walk in.

He’s sure Mercedes can see the lines of stress and tension in his face and shoulders, as she always seems able to do, but that’s alright because he’s gotten used to it and he’s so grateful for her in this moment. Sylvain wraps her up in the biggest hug he has probably ever given her, melting into her embrace. Mercedes smells like sugar and vanilla and a loving home he could only ever dream of having. She’s a breath of fresh air on a summer day when fields of sunflowers bloom, filled with their fragrance. In his arms, she’s warm and he can’t help but sigh into the top of her head, rustling her sandy blonde hair with his heavy breath as he continues to hold onto her. It’s a hug much past friendly and much past what anyone else would give or get, but it’s so uniquely _them_ that it doesn’t matter or concern Sylvain, even in the middle of her bakery. He’s let a lot show within these seemingly fragile sugar-crystal walls over many pots of tea, as she’s the one that's always been there when he’s needed to let out his ugly, angry, dark secrets that weren’t meant for Ingrid’s or Dimitri’s ears because for whatever reason, Mercedes just _got it_.

“Sorry,” he murmurs into her hair, “Just give me a second.”

He can feel her smile pressed into his shoulder, relaxing bit by bit from the gentle and kind pattern she rubs soothingly into his back until he’s all but putty in her hold.

“You’re alright,” she tells him in that sweet tone, patient until he eases back. “It’s nice to see you, too.”

Mercedes touches his cheek and he ignores Jeritza’s imploring gaze that he can feel peeking out curiously from around the corner. He guesses he’s back in the kitchens testing something new for the pastry case, today. 

“Are you taking care of yourself? You look like you’re in need of some tea. Maybe a slice of cake. _Or_ _two_.”

Sylvain takes her hand from his cheek, pressing his lips to her knuckles in a silent gesture of appreciation for asking before he releases it. He gives her a smile when he sees the teasing glint in her eyes.

“Yeah, I’m good. Just a weird month. My dad, yanno. Nothing new.”

She just gives him a sympathetic smile before rounding the counter. Jeritza has retreated again to the back, where Sylvain can hear things being measured and mixed as Mercedes makes tea and picks him out some cake. He picks the seat - their usual one by the window so Sylvain can watch people walk by when he gets a little uncomfortable opening up, finding focus in the routine of others and speaking when he’s ready while she calmly waits, as always. It’s their routine each time Sylvain comes to see her, which isn’t as often as when they were younger and had less responsibilities; when they were much less concerned with inheriting the lives of their parents and becoming what they were “meant” to be.

Sylvain thinks she’s becoming what she was meant to be. A bakery owner with her brother, kindness always on her lips. Like a mother to the community. She gives back in ways Sylvain would never know how, simply because he doesn’t know how to even give a part of himself up. Sometimes he does when Ingrid’s over and he has too much to drink. Sometimes he does when Dimitri is having a good week and Sylvain’s has been particularly shitty to the point where his inner sulking is oozing outwards and Dimitri invites him over for some of his favourite gelato from that one chocolate shop on Dimitri’s side of the city; it relaxes him while they watch a movie until Dimitri is searching him quietly and concerned before Sylvain spills. And sometimes it happens here, with Mercedes, who instantly relaxes him with her touch and soft gaze and unending patience until he pulls out something through one of his many fractures.

Mercedes sits and he gives her a smile, reaching out to pour them both a cup of tea from the kettle she brings out when they’re together. It’s a lovely cream colour with soft green and blue flowers twining around it. Blue like her eyes and the sky on a less sunny day. Green like the matcha latte Ingrid orders at the cafe near her place where they always get breakfast together. It matches the cups she brings each time, too, and makes him wonder if they’re the only two who partake in tea together with this set. He’d like to think he’s special enough for that, but knows it’s probably just pure coincidence.

She thanks him warmly for the tea, cradling the cup between both palms after pushing a slice of cake towards him. Another one of his favourites - a fluffy sponge with layers of mildly sweet, even fluffier cream, strawberries on top and smattered in the middle-most layer. He accepts it graciously, pulling the plate closer to him to take a bite.

“Thanks, Mercie. You always know the way to my heart.”

She giggles softly behind her hand, resting her cheek on her open palm.

“Naturally. I’ve known you for awhile, silly.” She pauses, head tilting imperceptibly. “So, do you want to talk about it?”

Sylvain’s smile wanes a little, gaze already drifting out the window. His expression turns slightly melancholy, finger tapping out a quiet, anxious rhythm next to his tea saucer.

“It’s just… my dad. The whole marriage thing again.”

“Oh. Was this the girl Lysithea saw you with? She was curious but thought it better not to ask.”

He deflates, running a hand through his hair, nails scraping against his scalp in attempt to focus himself.

“Bernadetta, yeah. Heiress to another company my dad thinks is important.” His smile edges on self deprecating. “If this was a day and age when arranged marriages were a thing, I could probably settle down with her if that’s what my dad set up but.” And he shrugs, finally looking back to Mercedes. “She’s too nice, yanno? Real sweet girl. She writes but is too shy to share it. Nice, even if she’s a little too nervous about everything. _Way_ too good for me, like every other decent one.”

Mercedes reaches across the table, hands tea-warmed against his. She takes his hand to tenderly rub her fingers over his knuckles. Her voice is soft when she speaks, like she’s trying not to spook a wild animal. Sylvain supposes it’s fair. He feels like one, sometimes. He’s less frazzled around the edges than some days and allows himself to settle with the cadence of her voice.

“Oh, Sylvain. You know that isn’t true. There will be someone out there that deserves you at your worst and your best, even if it isn’t who your father wants. And there’s nothing wrong with that, because you did say so yourself - we _don’t_ live in the age of arranged marriages. You’re being a little dramatic, dear.”

Sylvain laughs, something small as he turns over his hand to give hers a squeeze. She always knows just what to say.

“Sounds like maybe _we_ should get married,” he deflects.

Now, it’s her turn to laugh and give his hand one last squeeze before withdrawing to sip at her tea.

“You scamp. I’m not _that_ easy to win over. My brother may have his own words about that, too.”

Sylvain sees the twinkle in her eye and shivers. He shakes his head quickly, chewing a bite of cake. 

“Hell no,” he says behind a hand around his mouthful of sponge and cream. He swallows. “I think I’d rather pass.”

“I thought you may.”

They sit in a companionable silence for the rest of the pot of tea and his slice of cake. Mercedes excuses herself a few times to help customers until it’s past close and their doors are locked and she’s packing a few things for him to take back home. She hands it to him after he helps her clean up the dishes and take them to the back. He gives Jeritza a small wave where he’s still baking and gets a nod in return, the man up to his elbows in flour and looking as dour as usual. Mercedes hands him the box and a bag of loose leaf tea, her hand coming to rest on his forearm with another one of her knowing, mothering smiles. Naturally, he isn’t allowed to leave on a simple _thank you_. 

“Take care of yourself, Sylvain, and maybe stop being such a stranger. I shouldn’t have to hear about your woes from Lysithea all the time,” she jokes.

“Yeah, I gotcha.”

He leans down to plant a chaste kiss on her cheek.

“Love ya, Mercie. Thanks for your everything.”

“You’re welcome. Now, go home and rest before you get yourself into more trouble.”

- **x** -

Surprisingly, he listens to her. Something about her whole motherly and kind, yet firm, attitude that sprouted from her upbringing has an effect on him in a positive way every time. Like, if she got through what she did and had the strength to tell him to do something, _anything_ , then he should listen lest he find himself in trouble.

He heard her story, once, and that was enough to remember it without ever hearing about it again. About how her family’s home was destroyed in a fire; arson. The guy caught and sent to jail. How they lost everything and the pastor of the church her mother and her regularly attended allowed them to live in the old nun schoolery quarters before the program stopped. How rough it was and how little they had as her mother struggled to find a job, as her now-deceased husband was the one that worked and she never had in her life, married from a young and naive age. How she was tragically separated from her brother for the longest time, only finding each other again when he was eighteen and able to seek them out in the one-bedroom apartment with the single bed she shared with her mother.

But what Sylvain remembers the most are the successes of this story and the way Mercedes’ eyes shone with tears of pride and happiness. At how her mother worked a boring cleaning job for long hours by day but would come home and teach Mercedes how to cook and bake every night in the poorly lit church kitchen when it was late and no one was around. About how she made delicious treats for a bake sale and one of the wealthy families at the church offered to back her, the cakes they purchased beyond exquisite. How she became the owner of one of the most successful bakeries downtown before eventually handing over the reigns to two lovely children.

Sylvain is proud of her. _Beyond proud_. For her unwavering strength, her kindness, her devotion. He supposes he surrounds himself with the same types of people. They’re all caring, with big, full hearts but different ways of showing it. Silent affection and benevolence disguised with edged words and gentle shoves in the right direction, familial love in thoughtful gestures with kind hands and kinder smiles. He surrounds himself with people who know exactly where to find the light shining between all of his broken and hastily shoved together pieces, only to wiggle their fingers in and slowly pull them apart; pull and pull until they find the vines underneath strangling his heart and trapping his soul before trying to unravel them. Sometimes, it works. Sometimes, they constrict tighter. He doesn’t know why he does it - why he keeps such nice people near him when he doesn’t deserve it. When they know how to get to him when he wants to hide inside the persona he built for himself in late high school and the years he was away. When they’re getting too good at breaking down his walls he’s finding harder and harder to control.

Her words of staying in for the night and out of trouble give him time to reflect. Maybe too _much_ time because he cooks something extremely easy for himself before settling down on his couch with his laptop and food. He sees the plane tickets and room stay that were booked in his name for winter break in his inbox. He skims a couple more random emails that he deletes or decides to answer later. There is _one_ last one, though, that he sees from an unfamiliar email. He clicks it and hears Bernadetta’s high and frantic voice as he reads it, considering she types just like how she talks. She notes that she’s got five chapters revised and what she hopes are ready to be read, if he’d do the honours, so he opens the document and settles in.

Sylvain falls asleep reading it, laptop forgotten off to the side with his empty dinner plate. Maybe he’s more exhausted from the day than he thought or maybe he’s just more comfortable than normal to settle in earlier. He dreams of the implied romance and heroism in Bernadetta’s story, of the sting of winter air in the Alps when he’s ready and about to go snowboard down each hill, of honey eyes looking straight through at him and dark navy hair, soft under his fingers as he brushes snowflakes from it before taking off down the slope.

- **x** -

Sylvain wakes up early enough to shower and eat before his boring Friday class. He has a late text from Hilda about how she can’t wait to see him Saturday. He tells her the same before he remembers what day that is and that he still has _no_ costume solidified. He has some time to think about it as he’s getting ready and settles on some generic werewolf with pieces from his closet that he knows he has, just like he’d joked about before.

He rummages through his closet for an outfit - some well-worn band tee starting to get holey and too soft, ripped jeans, red flannel, and his normal beat up high tops. He drops it all on his desk chair as a reminder, wondering what accessories he needs. Does he need any? He really has no clue, chewing his bottom lip as he frantically searches for werewolf costumes like it’ll save his life. How ridiculous.

He sees pictures of ears and extra fur everywhere and fangs. Figures the fangs and ears can’t hurt, but he doesn’t feel the all out need to be any furrier than that. There is a line where he’d look a little too outrageous, right? He’ll let Lorenz keep that role for himself.

Realistically, he can get good fangs at a Halloween store, but the ears? He figures if they match his hair in some way it’ll look better and maybe he can joke about competing with Lorenz a little easier. Besides, he can’t have Hilda giving him all the hell in the world for his already minimal effort.

He’s finishing getting ready when he remembers the quiet girl he sits near in one of his anthropology classes. The one with a nice smile when she deigned to look up from her desk. He remembers her briefly mentioning that she has an online store where she crafts ear accessories in her free time because she just loves animals so much. (He also might remember Hilda mentioning that she’d bought the most _cute_ pink ones from her, once upon a time, too, among other things.) She was shy admitting it, but she was simply shy the entire partner project Sylvain had to work with her on. He still has her number saved and decides it wouldn’t hurt to text her.

**S: hey marianne. it’s sylvain. this is really random but remember the project we did together and you mentioned that you have an online store? are they all custom orders or do you have anything pre-made?**

As predicted, he doesn’t get a text before he leaves for class and just keeps his fingers crossed that she’ll come through and he’ll get one… well, sometime. 

It’s like any other day. He ambles in, just a few minutes early, picks a spot in the middle of the room and pulls out his laptop to take notes. Except, he still has Bernadetta’s story open and figures it’s loads better than listening to a lecture he can review later by the online powerpoint their professor posts after each class. Occasionally, he glances up while pretending to pay attention, only to resume his spot in the third chapter where he’d left off the previous night.

About forty-five minutes into the lecture, when they’re taking a short break, there’s a warm breath near his ear with a tone that’s equally scathing and teasing.

“Hey. You know you should be taking notes, right?”

Sylvain turns - maybe a little too quickly, maybe a little startled, as he sees Felix leaning forward in his chair with a self-satisfied smirk at surprising him. He schools his expression as well as he can, despite his ears burning and the breathless feeling that comes because holy shit. Felix talked to him. _Felix_. It’s always Sylvain stopping him after class if he can catch him, even when he knows that Felix without fail will use some excuse about going to the gym or begrudgingly writing a paper or he has stuff to do for fencing. It has Sylvain wondering what he looks like with a sword or just in leggings and that’s enough to wish he was in one of the ludicrous period dramas he’s an absolute sucker for that he always equated everything to, just impaled on the sword of someone so beautiful.

He laughs, hand nervously running through his hair on habit.

“Suppose I should be, huh? I’ll just read it later when it’s online.”

Felix levels him with a look.

“What are you reading, anyways?”

Sylvain immediately minimizes it, which has Felix raising an eyebrow. He thinks that someone else seeing Bernie’s writing is like betraying her secrets. This is personal, private, a part of her Sylvain’s allowed to see when he hasn’t even offered her anything genuine of himself except maybe his friendship.

“Just… I have a friend. She’s over at Enbarr. Studies business. Met her cause of my dad but that’s besides the point. She writes and just asked me to look it over, is all. It’s a fantasy story and honestly? I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hooked.”

Felix hums in response, carefully watching Sylvain with an unreadable expression and maybe a small frown. Is that frown permanently etched onto his features? He finds himself wanting to know if he can change that.

The professor starts talking again, and Sylvain’s almost grateful for it so that he can break away from that soul-searching stare and turn back to the task at hand.

Felix is in his space before he knows it again, voice lowered where he whispers next to Sylvain’s ear as to not raise suspicion, draw attention to them in the packed lecture hall. “If you need my notes, just ask, but I’m only offering this once.” When he leans away, Sylvain is distracted by the warmth that lingers on his neck and the tapping of a pen against a notebook behind him.

Sylvain spares him a glance, shooting a smile over his shoulder. “Thanks.”

The rest of the class goes by smoothly. He reads as much as he can from Bernadetta and packs everything neatly away, at the end. When he checks his phone, he has a text from Marianne waiting for him.

_M: Hello, Sylvain. :) I do have some things made. Do you need something specific?_

Oh, thank the gods. He could kiss her, she’s such a life saver.

**S: hey! yeah if it isn’t too short notice i had something for a friend’s halloween party. i was thinking werewolf?**

_M: I think I have something made that would match you. Would you like to meet to exchange?_

**S: yes please! let me know when and where and how much i owe you because you’re quite literally the best.**

She _is_ the best for this. That’s just a fact.

She sets a time that allows him to run and buy fangs from the Halloween store before they meet up. She sells him some ears that are extremely close to his hair colour and tells him it’s his lucky day - these ones are pretty popular but she had one pair left. He pays her and scoops her into a thank you hug for things being so last minute, offering whatever she needs to make up for it. She just smiles that kind, calming smile that reminds him of Mercedes before telling him goodbye.

Sylvain leaves and texts Hilda, telling her it isn’t the most exciting costume but he’ll look good for her. She sends him a string of laughing emojis and he crashes early, that night, positively ready for the weekend.

- **x** \- 

His routine is normal like, well, _normal_ , come Saturday, besides maybe sleeping in a bit later than usual. He sleeps, eats, showers, preps some food for the week, and makes a list of groceries he needs. He does the dishes, rechecks that he pulled everything out for his Halloween costume, and throws his laundry in the washer. He re-checks the time on the invite magneted to his fridge, sets an alarm for when he needs to get ready, and settles in to do some reading for class beforehand.

When his alarm goes off, he gets ready with relative ease. He gets dressed in the outfit he picked out, leaving off his flannel until he’s ready to leave to avoid getting too warm. His hair is styled into perfect curls and swoops, he throws on a little mascara and chapstick, and he slides the headband with red wolf ears onto his head. He pops in the fangs, last, giving himself a once-over in the mirror.

Sylvain feels like he did pretty good, being last minute and all other things considered. Pulling on his high tops, he sends Hilda a text saying he’ll be there soon (and not too late but not too early, either), and leaves.

There are people still showing up when Sylvain arrives, but Hilda is still there to greet him with a hug and kiss to his cheek even with everyone else trying to filter through the entryway. When he gets her at arm's length, he can’t help the teasing wolf-whistle that comes out.

“Sexy nurse? You outdid yourself, Hilda.”

She reaches up to touch the ears he’s wearing, smile tender.

“Same with you. From Marianne?”

He nods, but motions towards her again.

“Really though, I bet you beat Lorenz, this year.”

It’s an equally genuine yet teasing comment, because she does look good. Great, even. Anyone with eyes can see that. She’s in this adorable punk nurse dress, just short enough and trimmed with delicate white lace that matches the white lacy stockings she’s wearing, held up by just as white garters. Her makeup is all pinks and shimmery whites and warm glitters, lips accentuated into a perfect pout with her bright pink lipstick. Her hair is curled into loose waves, for once, and all down, the white hat on a headband settled perfectly in her locks, equally cute and frilly. The fuzzy pink heels she has on are what really sell the whole look, though. She gives him a little twirl to show it off further, hands smoothing down the front before she pops her hip, hands at her waist.

“It’s good, right?” she asks, not lacking in confidence, seeking that affirmation.

Sylvain’s still happy to give it to her, though, as her friend. They saw through each other’s bullshit so long, yet still hit it off, despite that. And no way would Sylvain ever consider seriously going after Hilda. He _knows_ her brother would come for his throat if he tried.

“Yeah,” he laughs, nodding toward her feet. “The shoes top it off.”

She lights up, showing them off more as she extends a leg. “Right? I needed an excuse to wear them more, and they looked good with this!” She motions towards him, next. “You look good, though. Rugged, yet handsome, but I don’t think you’re going to beat Lorenz in a costume contest, tonight.”

Hilda bumps him with her hip, arm looping through his. Sylvain entertains her with a playful roll of his eyes, allowing himself to be led into the party.

“Like anyone would _ever_ be able to win against whatever he has up his sleeve. Come on. I’m the _last one_ that would, anyways. Remember - no childhood Halloween or anything?”

“True…” she drags out the vowels with a small shrug. Sylvain knows she’s leading him to the bar set up in the lavish dining area. There, she pours him a cup of the spiked punch with a _here_ , before pulling him towards the kitchen with a _hold on, one more thing_.

In the kitchen, she opens one of the cupboards for two shot glasses and then another for liquor. He’s about to ask how she knows where everything is, but then remembers Claude and Hilda practically grew up in this mansion with how often they were with Lorenz since childhood. He graciously takes the glass and raises it in the air, his eyebrow raised.

“What are we toasting to, tonight?” he asks.

“To having a great Halloween and surviving this freaking semester.”

He laughs, clinking his glass against Hilda’s. “I can drink to that.” And then he downs it, nose scrunching up at the burn as he sets down his glass.

“Thanks. I think I actually needed that.”

“Me too. Now, come on. You have to go see everyone and you can’t miss the music!”

Sylvain has no idea what she’s talking about, as he can already hear music out in the general gathering area. He doesn’t question it, though, just follows Hilda to mingle. He trails after her as they briefly talk to Lorenz. Sylvain makes one of his stereotypical inappropriate comments about how nice his legs look in the skirt he has on because he _can_ and it’s _Lorenz_. He’s in full drag, makeup impeccable and impossibly tall in the glittering purple heels he has on. Hilda slaps him playfully on the shoulder when he says it and Lorenz stumbles in their conversation a little. Sylvain is sure he’s blushing under all that foundation.

She stays with him as they find Dimitri and Claude, the latter of whom he’s finally meeting. Dimitri’s in this sexy vampire get-up, shirt ruffled and loose yet showing his broad chest off through the deeply unbuttoned v-neck of it. His pants are fitted and perfectly high waisted, hair half pulled back and a black satin capelet strung over his shoulders. He’s got fangs in and immediately beams when he sees Sylvain.

Sylvain falls into one of Dimitri’s warm hugs and tells him how good he looks. Being a vampire suits him. Dimitri blushes and they pull away from their friendly embrace when there’s an unfamiliar hand on Dimitri’s arm. They both glance up to see Claude, and Sylvain can’t help but to meet his smile. It feels natural to shake his hand and pull him into a hug. He sees Hilda rolling her eyes and Dimitri’s genuine, _extremely_ relieved smile out of the corner of his eye.

“Claude, right?”

Claude laughs, then, straightening out his jacket. He matches Hilda’s nurse costume with his doctor one. Sylvain can see why Dimitri likes Claude the way he seems to, from his easy smile to the calculating way he looks at things to his calming countenance. He seems like a good balance to everything that is Dimitri.

“The one and only.”

“About time,” Sylvain jokes, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I figured Dimitri was keeping you for himself and Hilda was scared I’d steal her best friend.”

Claude laughs again and it’s brighter, his smile reaching his eyes a little more.

“It’s been a long time coming. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Sylvain tamps it down, giving him a nod. He tries to be a little more genuine about it, a little less flirty. Not that he thinks he’s going to make a bad first impression for Claude. It’s more so for Dimitri’s sake, than anything.

“It’s nice to meet you, too. Thanks for inviting me.”

Claude waves a hand dismissively, shifting his footing.

“Don’t worry about it. You know Hilda would have invited you no matter what.”

Sylvain gets another swat to the arm for that, Hilda practically pouting next to him.

“Yeah. How dare you think I wouldn’t invite you. Do you think I’m _that_ cold-hearted? You know I love you, Sylvie.”

Sylvain just grins, taking a half-step into her space to drag her into another hug. Her laugh is audible over the music, musical and lively, giving him a hug in return. He plants a sloppy and exaggerated kiss to her cheek as revenge for all of her playful hits of the night, as he’s sure to get more.

“Nah. I know you love me.”

Hilda’s pushing at his face making disgusted noises as they banter back and forth, Dimitri and Claude looking awfully amused, all the while. When he finally lets her go, he gives them all a small salute with his cup.

“Claude, Dimitri, _my lady_ ,” he says with a wink. “I have some others to find. I’ll see you all later.”

Claude gives him a small wave of his own, already turning back to Dimitri who is just giving Sylvain his own embarrassed smile. Hilda shoves him away gently before leaving in the opposite direction through the throngs of people.

He finds Dorothea and Ingrid, after that. Dorothea looks lovely in her red princess get-up, which he tells her. Ingrid is dashing next to her, looking like the lady knight she always wanted to be when they were kids and Sylvain read them storybooks about dragons and knights in shining armor saving maidens from distress. He remembers her complaining about the knights in the stories always being guys and _can’t a girl be a knight too_? Sylvain would always tell her _yes_ and that the person who wrote the book probably wasn’t very smart because they didn’t make the knight a girl. It always seemed to make her happy until they outgrew those stories, outgrew Sylvain reading to them, outgrew spending time together like that - huddled up in the study at the Gautier estate, fire blazing to warm them all after hours of playing in the snow, snacks scattered around on the silly fancy trays the servants would bring them in on. Ingrid with her eyes bright and Dimitri with his blanket pulled tight around his shoulders as Sylvain exaggeratedly told the story, using sound effects and large gestures and different voices for each character.

He misses it. He misses it sorely as he looks at Ingrid, now, the shining knight she always should have been and the damsel she deserved, saved and by her side. It might just be a Halloween costume, and maybe it was only deliberate on Dorothea’s part, but it sure manages to make him feel a certain way. It must show enough on his face and from the way he finds himself suddenly needing the drink that he takes, because Ingrid is stepping forward for a hug before he can think to step out of the way.

Sylvain slides into her arms easily, anyways. He needs to stop with the sentimentality, if that’s the only way he’s getting hugs from her, anymore.

“Hello, stranger,” she mumbles into his chest where she’s currently pressed. If she notices the way he hugs her a little tighter, she sure doesn’t say anything.

“Hey.”

They talk for a bit. Dorothea manages to embarrass Ingrid, which isn’t the easiest feat. Somehow Ingrid manages to embarrass _Dorothea_ , which he can’t believe, even if it is just one well-placed compliment. He thinks they’re pretty perfect together, that they’ll challenge each other and easily care for the other. They’re _good_ for each other and Dorothea is just what Ingrid needs. What Ingrid deserves.

Sylvain eventually excuses himself for another cup of punch. He picks a spot to people watch from, exchanging a couple words with anyone that comes up to him. He sees Caspar dressed as a zombie and Linhardt as a mummy. Edelgard is talking to Petra, the former looking like an empress and the latter as some warrior princess. He spies Ferdinand dressed as a jockey with Hubert whispering something in his ear looking suspiciously _not_ in costume. Annette is here, too, in an adorable witch outfit talking animatedly to Ashe who is dressed as an elven archer. He sees some other faces that are familiar but no one that really stands out to go grab for a conversation.

He stays in his spot, for the most part. At least, for the next hour or so. He eats some snacks, lets Hilda tease him and fill up his cup for a third time, and settles back into his people watching zone.

His people watching spot _just_ happens to be where he needs to be, because eventually there are coloured lights pointing to a patch of the floor cleared out and with instruments set up that he hadn’t noticed all night, too blocked by all the bodies in the room. He takes a long pull from his cup before he sees a familiar redhead and two more familiar faces and then -

 _Felix_.

He doesn’t hear what Annette says and dully notices them beginning to play because there Felix is. In a space more intimate than a bar or class. Felix, with his costume that is just as generic as Sylvain’s. He’s in black cat ears and a tail to match, legs painted into tight black skinny jeans and a short sleeve black turtleneck. His hair is in a messy ponytail and his nails are painted just as black as his pants. Sylvain likes it.

He drinks in the sight of Felix as he plays, like a man dying of thirst. Some of the songs they play are the same as at Fodlan’s Tap, some different. Each one good. Sylvain likes the way they sound, likes Annette’s sweet voice and Caspar’s enthusiastic energy and Linhardt’s lazy countenance that seems effortless. But most of all he likes Felix and the sure way his hands move and the way his strong and lean forearms flex when he begins to move quick between frets and the way he licks his lips after playing a part that seemed particularly hard. He finds himself staring a little too hard, a little too long, and he’s grateful for Felix not seeing him or for any of his friends to give him shit about how doe-eyed he appeared for someone. He knows he would never hear the end of it. The - _holy_ shit _did Sylvain_ really _just find a single person to like when he can never settle on one_?

Like any of them _ever_ mattered.

And maybe Felix doesn’t really matter in that way nor may he ever. He can’t imagine his chances are high or exist. That still doesn’t stop him from looking or stop his brain from running wild with possibilities. 

He’s so hung up on that thought that he barely registers that they just played their last song. Felix still doesn’t look out at the crowd and Annette gives her sincerest thank yous and Linhardt is already pressed into Caspar’s side, half asleep and yawning where Caspar’s smiling wide enough to light the room.

By some miracle, he manages to tear his gaze away from the makeshift stage where Felix is disappearing to who-knows-where and the others are out mingling with everyone else. The crowd seems happy, excited and energized by the music. He catches sight of Dimitri, pressing a kiss to Claude’s cheek, Claude’s hands impossibly low on his waist where they’re pressed together. He sees Caspar kiss Linhardt square on the mouth as a congratulations for another well done performance, and Linhardt slips arms around his neck in a lazy embrace. He almost spits out his drink as Ingrid all but throws her arms around Dorothea’s neck and kisses her with all she’s got and Dorothea’s giggling and swaying them side to side in a playful hold.

It’s a lot, needless to say. A lot to see all of your friends together, with someone. A lot for someone who absolutely has a lot of nothing. For someone who hasn’t indulged in the closeness of someone else for awhile, yet is left wanting in ways he can’t really describe and for reasons he can’t seem to put a finger on. He’s always been a serial dater. Someone who has never let himself get too close to anyone, only ever attached for a few fun weeks, at most, if they didn’t just end up as a one night fuck. He isn’t really sure which is better or if either even is.

It doesn’t explain the want he feels. The need to maybe be close to someone for more than a night. He blames it on the punch Hilda’s too good at making and the loud music still echoing in his brain and the upbeat atmosphere that’s infectious and the suffocating closeness of all of his friends romantically entwined with each other. This isn’t the place for him and he’s beginning to feel overwhelmed by it all and extremely out of his typical element. He needs air.

Sylvain pushes off the wall as smoothly as he can without looking like he’s in a rush, tossing his cup in a trash can and catching Hilda’s eye only long enough to make some vague motion that he was just going outside for a second, not leaving. Not letting the weird _almost_ anxiety settling in his stomach get to him.

He knows the way to the back patio like the back of his hand from all the summers he had come here just to spend time with Hilda floating around in the pool, sipping margaritas with fancy umbrella picks and colourful curly straws that Hilda insist they always have, talking about anything and everything and nothing at all.

Their second summer as friends, she found out about his overbearing father and how he could never come out. He shared some of his wild stories from the two years he spent working for the family business abroad, the nights where he’d get nearly blackout drunk yet still make it back to his flat or all the girls and boys he gave empty compliments and promises to in their native tongue as they fucked in the dark so neither of them would have to remember too many details of the night.

She shared equal amounts of her own secrets when the alcohol loosened her lips just as much as Sylvain’s. How insecure she could be about letting people down, which is why she let others do the hard work. How she had the biggest crush on Claude when they were kids but then she met Marianne in high school and nothing has been the same since (and Sylvain knows she hasn’t told her yet, to this day - but that’s a secret he’ll pretend not to know).

They talk about their respective families, in these summers. She mentions she has an older brother who can be painfully protective but she still loves him with every fiber in her being because he’s the _best_ , even if it is hard to deal with living in his shadow because he’s just _so good_ at everything. Sylvain briefly mentions that his brother is an asshole. That he got kicked out for who he loved that daddy didn’t approve of. He doesn’t mention the hands his brother would lay on him, the bruises he’d leave that no one would bat an eye at. He’s sure she sees the pained look on his face when he mentions him because she doesn’t press him further, turns the topic towards what flavour should be in a margarita and if he’d heard the new single from an artist they both liked before playing it because no, he hadn’t heard it.

He thinks about how good Hilda is for him, sometimes. She doesn’t tolerate his crap and will call him out, but always within reason and never where she feels like she shouldn’t. She’s smarter and more in tune than people give her credit for, and Sylvain supposes it makes sense because it’s the same kind of persona he’s craftily created for himself in the last decade.

Reminds him of when they first met during a partner project her freshman year and his sophomore year. It was some silly two person project in a class he can’t remember the subject of and he feels even more fuzzy trying to recall the details of the topic they picked. However, what he _does_ freshly recall is how she had him carry all the books they gathered as she stacked them high and heavy while they perused the library for references. He was more than happy to carry things for a pretty girl, but he could spot the cracks between her words as well as he could feel his own when they came out of his mouth perfectly fractured and sticky sweet to get what he wanted.

Sylvain remembers when they were done how he couldn’t help but call her out on her blatant laziness when it was _so obvious_ she wasn’t as dumb as she put on. And Hilda wasted no time in telling him the same, words just as flowerless and to the point. That he was just as fake and she knew he had more brains if finishing half their project in a week was anything to go by.

They hit it off pretty quick, after that. They’d get drinks together, go to ridiculous house parties together where they sometimes only knew each other and maybe the one hosting. They spent a lot of summer days together, borrowing the Gloucester pool because her place didn’t have one and no way were they going to the Gautier estate. Besides, Lorenz and his family loved Hilda and they always came in and out the quiet back gate, borrowing the pool house for their fun and never disturbing anyone.

Now, he finds himself on that familiar back patio. The air is warmer tonight than it has been, but he can’t help the shiver the slides down his spine as he takes in a breath of cool air to chill his otherwise warm and amped up nerves.

He comes poolside, a familiar spot, and toes off his shoes and socks before sinking down to the edge. He rolls his jeans up further than they were already cuffed, fingers catching in the deliberate rips before he’s straightened everything out and his feet are in the water.

It’s warm, heated. Comforting. Sylvain sinks back to let his weight rest on his hands so he can safely space out as his toes curl and his feet swirl through the water. He watches the rivulets it makes, watches the vapors of steam rising and curling before being lost to the dark starry night. It’s lit up enough around the pool by hundreds of twinkling solar powered fairy lights and it makes him feel less weird to be out here, alone, his soul and mood unraveling with each caress of water against his bare shins.

Sylvain allows himself to close his eyes and allows the sensation to calm him, ease him into a state similar to how he feels in the summer when he’s at the lake house. Away from everyone. Just him and the sounds of nature or stray boaters or a family playing on the beach as he relaxes in the waters. Sometimes Ingrid or Dimitri is there and they’ll take the boat out further, where it’s deeper, and Sylvain will spend time just bobbing in the water while Dimitri enjoys the sun or Ingrid swims laps until she’s breathless and laying back on the boat until she dries off. It’s always a familiar silence between them. Their escape from the real world. The perfect haven they all will hide in as often as they can when the months are warm and time exists, stretching from one lazy day to the next before they make their two hour drive back home in Sylvain’s comfy black sedan, music turned low and moods content and little words exchanged until they all agree they need a vacation again or when Sylvain decides he needs to just get away from the whole of it.

He likes it more when his friends are there, though. Feels a little more confident, a little more brave to go in the water instead of lying only on the shore with water lapping up to his ribs. He likes how it feels to swim in the deep - the daring of it, but only if he can remind himself that Ingrid or Dimitri are there. When he can remember that it isn’t Miklan pushing him off the side of the boat when he was nine and barely knew how to swim before rough hands were pushing and holding him under a little too long to be considered just for fun. They were the only two out on the lake that day and when Miklan finally let him come up for air, he was coughing water and struggling to remember how to breathe oxygen and _stay calm_ and _not panic_ because Miklan liked when he got that kind of reaction.

When Miklan took him back and their mother asked how swimming went, Miklan laid a heavy hand on his shoulder and Sylvain tried his best not to flinch. Miklan told her _it was great_ , that he _taught Sylvain how to dive in the deep water_. Sylvain could only smile and nod, too scared if he opened his mouth that something else would come out. Their mother was happy that he did such a good job and he could only stand still as his hair was ruffled before he was allowed to retreat back to his room where he stayed for the remainder of their week there.

But Dimitri and Ingrid and once Mercedes had helped him create better memories in a place that typically would have left him feeling haunted. Sometimes, when he goes there alone, he can hear Miklan’s taunting voice in the hallways, the sneer in his tone or the bark of his laugh when he shoves Sylvain down the cabin stairs a little too quick and purposefully to give him his second sprained ankle of the year. He sometimes feels like he sees his shadow creeping up behind him to commit some form of bruises to Sylvain’s sun-kissed skin when the lights are low and he’s reading fireside.

Here, though, he only has good memories. Memories where he’s pleasantly buzzed and sun-warmed and he can still see his feet at the bottom of the pool where they touch. Even now, in the low artificial light strung around the waters and the faint rainbow changing light reflecting in the depths of the pool he can see his toes where they harmlessly and lazily wiggle around. Here, in this dim light, he can see someone else across the pool from him on the end where the diving board is, looking just as casual as Sylvain doesn’t feel, quite yet. 

Someone.

 _Someone_ he didn’t notice who has probably seen just how lost in thought he is, seen him trying to gather his wits and chill out. It probably isn’t as deep as his mind loves to supply, but he still finds himself trying to lounge back and look more calm, more like his normal self.

It takes him a bit longer to realize just who it is across from him, though, eyes straining in the low light even with his contacts in. He’s searching for any clue who it is before he registers inky hair and a never-ending glare and a pair of cat ears because. _Right_. Halloween party.

Felix.

It’s somehow always Felix there when he needs him to not be. _Do you ever really need him to be there though?_ his brain rudely supplies.

He thinks they catch each other’s gaze from across the pool but he tries not to think too hard about it as he tips his head up to a clear, cloudless sky to count stars and recall constellations like he used to when he was ten and Dimitri was eight, trying to remember each one. He tries too hard not to think about how bewitching Felix looked across the water, steam obscuring and wrapping him up in its shimmering tendrils, looking impossibly soft for all his sharp edges as if he knew the feeling well of needing to get away from everyone, sometimes.

Sylvain tries to focus hard on the sky above him, until his concentration is broken by a shadow in his peripheral. He can’t help but turn his head, eyebrows raised in question.

Him.

 _Felix_.

“Hey,” he all he can supply, paired with a crooked smile. He rests his cheek on his shoulder, eyes shamelessly raking over Felix’s frame, now that he’s closer. If Felix notices, he saves both of them the embarrassment by not saying anything about it.

“Hey.”

That’s the only word Sylvain gets as response when Felix assesses him, stares him down with little flicks of his gaze because he can’t hold eye contact for long, Sylvain notes. Eventually, he must decide that it’s safe. That Sylvain’s safe, because one moment he’s standing and the next he’s dropping his boots unceremoniously to the concrete before he settles in next to Sylvain, feet dipping into the water. Sylvain watches as their waves collide before drawing his gaze back up to Felix.

Sylvain’s really struck with how pretty he is, now. He notes the pretty sweep of his dark eyelashes over his pale cheeks each time he blinks, shuttering out burning gold. He traces the curve of his nose with his eyes, smooth and maybe a little upturned. He states a little too long at his lips, visibly bitten and chewed from stress or pressure or whatever goes on in his life. He tries to count the numerous ear piercings that line his ear and then mentally tallies how many times he has thought that cat ear headband looked cute, only to realize he lost count way earlier in the night.

Still, there’s something softer about him this close up and figures the steam steadily rising from the water isn’t playing tricks on his vision. Sylvain finds he likes it. Likes looking at Felix so close up. Finds he might want to lean in and brush his hair away from his cheek to place the most innocent kiss there, though he won’t. It must still be the punch talking, even if the majority has worn off by now.

“It’s rude to stare, you know,” Felix states flatly.

Sylvain laughs, shrugging.

“Can’t help myself. Didn’t think I’d have any company.”

Felix gives him a look he can’t decipher and Sylvain’s not sure how much he likes it, even if it feels a little nice to not know exactly what someone is thinking when they look at him. Normally, the looks people give him are too easy to discern. They speak levels of want and desire, not truly looking at him for who he is but _what_ he is, what is last name is, what the platinum card in his wallet is good for.

“I didn’t think I would, either.”

The admission is soft, one that Sylvain almost doesn’t catch. It causes him to helplessly look back at Felix. Felix isn’t meeting his gaze, again, and that’s alright because Sylvain figures he isn’t good at these sorts of things; at socializing and parties and every other thing you’re expected to do with your friends in college. But that’s also okay because Sylvain is good at it, at filling silences or breaking the ice. It’s what he was groomed for.

“Well, yanno. Sometimes it’s nice to get away from everything.”

Felix only nods to that, which cues Sylvain into thinking he’s allowed to go on.

“Hey, so. You were good up there, by the way. I know I told you that before, but it’s still true. I had to take piano lessons until high school and that made enough sense. But the way you play guitar?” He whistles low, shaking his head. “Can’t even imagine playing anything like that.”

Sylvain thinks he sees Felix blush a little under the dim sparkle of lighting that’s cast over them. The desire to chase it with his lips exists; to feel the heat of it under his mouth and see what other things he can say to stain him crimson.

“Thanks.”

Sylvain laughs, knocking their shoulders together.

“What. That’s it?”

Felix huffs indignantly, brows drawn and expression annoyed as he pushes Sylvain back. The touch startles Sylvain and he almost wants to reach out to warm those cold hands with his own.

“No. I just-” he groans out in a fit of frustration, pushing hair behind his ear. Sylvain thinks it’s endearing. “I don’t hear it often. My - my brother taught me how to play. I only started playing again because Annie wanted me in her stupid band.”

Sylvain watches him carefully, waiting to see what line he might be able to toe without breaking this sensitive moment because he finally has Felix here. With him. The thing he’s only imagined more than a handful of times in the last month.

“Well, good on you for letting her bug you into it. You guys are good together.”

Felix sighs, waving a hand as if trying to brush away the comment, leaning back on his hands.

“Whatever. Annie is the star of the show, anyways. It was all her idea. She didn’t let it go all high school.”

“Yeah?” Sylvain wants to know more, to know all about him and what hides behind that rich honey gaze that he just might selfishly want only on him. He hopes he doesn’t sound too desperate, that his curiosity doesn’t bleed too far into that one word. “Seems like a long time to hold onto something, though I guess it makes sense if that’s what you really want to do.”

“Yeah, she really did want it.”

Felix tells him about how he’s known Annette since they were kids. She always wanted to be a singer and would pretend they were in a band whenever she got to pick at what they played. He always would go along with it because _you just can’t tell Annie no_ , otherwise she’d be singing at you until you went along with it, hands grabbing at your clothes and whining until it happened. Sylvain learns that she’s a vocal performance major, which he vaguely remembers Ingrid telling him the night of the concert all those weeks ago when they’d first met.

While Felix is talking, there’s a lot he finds out, even if it all doesn’t come out in concrete words. Sylvain can see how much he feels, how much he cares. It’s obvious when he mentions he stopped playing guitar in high school because he was bored of it and only let himself be coerced into playing again last year when Annette begged him to pick it back up for one of her solo performance pieces. (Sylvain figures the stopping playing was because of Glenn, if he’s adding his timelines up correctly, but doesn’t say anything and keeps his easy smile on his face. Felix doesn’t need to know what he does.)

After, Annette bribed him into doing a battle of the bands contest on campus. Felix protested, saying they didn’t even have enough members but he agreed to do it if she found people. He didn’t have much faith in her finding anyone, yet somehow she managed and proved him wrong. She put up fliers on campus in hot spots - bright, colourful things decked out with glitter and cat stickers to grab attention.

Clearly, it worked, because within the week she was excitedly blowing up his phone with one too many texts which kept interrupting his music during his morning workout session. It got to the point where he just had to step off the gym floor and call her to get an entire story that made more sense than the picture her words weren’t painting. 

Annette gushed to him about how she met these two - Linhardt and Caspar - and how they were _pretty dang good_. Caspar was a physical education major and was there on a wrestling scholarship. Turns out he also knew Ashe, one of their other childhood friends, because they worked together at the cat cafe Felix and Annette frequented. He plays the drums and is really nice and Ashe totally vouches for him. His boyfriend, Linhardt, is also pretty good. She tells Felix she thinks he’ll like Linhardt. He’s quiet and seems kind of sleepy but his finger-work on bass is incredible. They learn he’s a biotech major and loves the research portion of it but doesn’t really like anything else that comes with it, especially the stuff that makes him squeamish. Both of them are special and ended up fitting seamlessly into their friend group.

Felix would have felt bad turning her down after she went through all the trouble to find people for them to be in a band with, so he starts practicing a little more religiously again. It’s hard, but he likes it in the same way he likes taking photos; it’s easy to space out and get into a different zone.

Sylvain laughs at this and mentions that he isn’t a very creative person, as much as he loves the arts and literature and how often his mother used to take him to the opera. Now, he figures he’s a business major for a reason, and clearly Felix is a photography major for one, too. Felix smiles something small and shy at that, rolling his eyes in a way that almost looks fond if Sylvain didn’t think the magic of the lights were beginning to get to him.

He jokes that he isn’t just like any other business major, though. That it’s because of his dad, otherwise he would have fully devoted himself to his anthropological studies or art history or something else _way_ more interesting, because all of that is more challenging and rewarding to learn about than all of the inane papers he has to write about _ethics in the workplace_ and project plans for _advanced developments in a business setting_ . Felix nods like maybe he understands the feeling, though Sylvain figures he at least knows his last name and what comes with it. He’s only recently escaped the media spotlight in the last year. He remembers article titles like _Gautier heir goes wild in Paris!_ and _Gautier heir seen with a different girl this week than last, who could she be?_ and more recent titles like _Sylvain Jose Gautier settling down?_ and _Still the hottest bachelor - who will grab Gautier?_

Maybe he pretends like not much has changed, but he knows it has. Ingrid tells him as much at times when he doubts he’s ever changed. She mentions that he doesn’t party as hard or throw himself into the touch of anyone who will have him as often, can see the gratefulness in her expression. Clearly, he still remembers the concerned and confused look she had when he came home from his romps in France and Germany, told him she saw the occasional article about him going too wild, getting too drunk, indulging in everything forbidden a little too much. She looked like she wanted to ask where her best friend went, just like he wanted to ask her the same after what happened with Glenn but didn’t, standing by as a silent sentinel for when she decided to come back and need him.

It’s true he’s settled down some, is a little less reckless, a little more caring with others and himself. He isn’t as desperate to seek out a love he’s never had, though he does have his days where he acts on instinct only to feel the wholly consuming guilt when coming down from the high of another body under his, quick to escape when he can. He’s gotten good at keeping his conquests away from his place, permanently making it his safe space like Mercedes practically bullied him into doing.

They’ve fallen into a comfortable silence, feet still kicking in tepid waters. This is something Sylvain isn’t used to with people he newly meets. He chances a glance over at Felix again, anyways. He looks lost in thought, watching the whorls of steam as they rise into the cool autumn air. Again, Sylvain finds he wants to soothe that look off his face, so unlike the sharp focus he’s witnessed there that seems something so wholly Felix-like.

He feels like he’s sobered up just talking to Felix, like it has nothing to do with the time that has lapsed since they’ve been sitting together. Things feel clear, like when he got his glasses for the first time or when you break the surface of cool water at the lake, not quite warmed by the summer sun. Things make sense, even in the haze of late evening, muddled by alcohol and rose coloured thoughts and a feeling of genuine happiness that’s just as new.

He leans forward, fingers curling around the pool edge as he knocks ankles lightly with Felix. His head tilts, smile playful. The look he gets is withering.

“Don’t even begin to suggest we go swimming.”

“I wasn’t going to. I was going to ask if you wanted to get out of here.”

Felix scoffs, barely bumping their knees. “And go where?”

“I know this 24-hour diner. Best burgers in town, I swear.”

Felix seems to brighten at the mention of good food (like Ingrid, his mind supplies), already getting up. “Sure.”

He’s rolling down his pants and slipping on his socks and boots, looking up to where Sylvain hasn’t moved.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

Sylvain’s never put on his shoes faster in his life.

- **x** -

They say goodbye to who they need to. Felix tells Annette that he’ll be home later, that he’s getting food with Sylvain and he doesn’t know how long they’ll be out so don’t bother staying up, he has his keys. She gives him a kind hug and sends him on his way, tells him that she’ll pass it on to Ashe who is engrossed in a conversation with Dedue about their favourite foods and new spices Ashe tried and who knows what else.

Sylvain says goodbye to Hilda with a tight hug and a big kiss to her cheek. She gives him a teasing wink when he says who he’s leaving with and he has to tell her it isn’t like that.

Felix is coming back to Sylvain’s side after he’s said goodbye to Dimitri and Ingrid, standing off to the side instead of interrupting their small circle that also contains Claude and Dorothea. Ingrid is still pink from what he assumes was Dorothea’s teasing but gives him a hug through her embarrassment. Dorothea gives him a kiss on the cheek and pats where she kissed with a wink. Claude offers his own sturdy, grounding hug, and Dimitri envelopes him in something warm and lasting. Sylvain laughs into his shoulder and holds on until he decides he’s done, encouraging him to stay with Claude for the night, that it’ll be fine, it’ll work out. No one says anything, though Ingrid has that pleased look in her eye and Claude gives him a gentle, thankful smile.

“Take care of him,” Sylvain tells Claude, giving the group a wave. “Love you guys! Don’t go too wild without me!”

Felix is waiting for him near the archway that leads to the front, arms crossed and back against the wall. He’s wrapped up in an over-sized black hoodie and scarf, now. Sylvain gives him a smile, motioning towards the front.

“You ready?”

Felix gives him a small smile of his own, in return. 

“Yeah.”

- **x** -

Turns out Felix road with Annette, so Sylvain drives them both through winding streets with sprawling spaces of grass stretched long across huge yards that eventually extend to even larger homes. These empty-feeling streets slowly give way to suburban neighborhoods before leading into the smaller homes that skirt the edges of downtown. Sylvain drives them past his place in the arts district before turning down another quaint street, only to pull up to a small diner with neon lights loud and the lighting dim inside.

“We’re here.”

Felix is still looking equal parts interested and skeptical when Sylvain comes around the car to open the door for him, all charm.

“Come on. Aren’t you hungry? I know _I_ am.”

Felix snorts, ignoring the hand Sylvain has held out. “Of course.”

It’s crowded inside the restaurant, busy on a Saturday night during bar time, like always. Sylvain puts his name down for a table for two and they step off to the side to wait.

While they wait, Sylvain dares to ask Felix to see some of his photography. Almost shyly, Felix shows him his latest project, a series of portraits that are whimsical, blurred around the edges and looking straight out of a fantasy film. The lighting is ethereal, many lit from the back or from just above creating beautiful streaks of light across each subject. The models are all of friends, dressed in different kinds of fantasy clothing and gear, a group that together, look like their own Dungeons and Dragons campaign. He tells Sylvain it was experimental, that Ashe gave him the idea to do something interesting to stand out, that modern day portraits were boring and fantasy flair would be cool, like catching something so unrealistic and fantastical seeming on film would be unique compared to every other landscape or typical studio project the professors saw every year. Felix, ever one for a challenge, ran with it.

Sylvain’s practically pressed up against the line of him, chest brushing Felix’s arm each time he points out something he likes: like the unearthly lighting in one or the lens flare that catches on a sword being sharpened in another or the colour grading on the set as a whole. When Sylvain asks how he managed to get so many of the portraits so soft in appearance, Felix tells him his secret to the dreamy effect was just chapstick on his lens. He laughs quiet huffs of air after, admits to Sylvain it was one of the weirder things he did but got him a lot of points with his professor and published in a magazine.

They’re so engrossed talking about the photos and other school projects that neither of them notice the drunk about to trip their way into Felix.

Felix stumbles, cursing and biting out some scathing comment while Sylvain instinctively reaches out to wrap an arm around his waist, bracing them both and saving them from a potential fall. He can’t help but chuckle, voice low and rumbling in his chest where he’s pressed flush to Felix’s back.

“Jeez. You tell him, Fe,” he says, nickname slipping off his tongue unbidden.

Felix flushes, something pretty and warm that reaches the tips of his ears.

“He’s the one that bumped into me!”

“Yeah, I know. Serves him right, yanno.”

It’s almost natural to stay like this in the cramped waiting area of the diner, close together and sharing air, warmth, the companionship of someone else. It isn’t until the hostess calls Sylvain’s name that they startle apart, almost forgetting that they’d ended up like that in the first place.

Now, it’s Sylvain’s turn to blush, hand nervously rubbing at the back of his neck with a _sorry_. Felix shrugs, just pulling at Sylvain’s sleeve to silently urge him to follow the hostess to their table.

They get sat at a small window booth for two at the back. Here, the light is dim and the neons are all that light up their private-feeling corner. They get menus and Felix predictably orders a burger, one with veggies and a fried egg and bacon to top it off. Sylvain orders french toast and a chocolate peanut butter malt and laughs when Felix tells him that’s gross.

“I don’t like sweets,” is all he says in his defense.

Sylvain balks, sipping at his water.

“Seriously? But they’re so good!”

Felix just scrunches up his nose further and shakes his head while Sylvain is busy pouting, brows furrowed in concentration before he lights up.

“Ok, but what about like… lemon bars or gingersnaps?”

He watches Felix wave a hand, face screwed up on an _eh_ kind of expression. “They’re ok. Better than your _ice cream_.”

Sylvain looks mock-offended for a moment, hand to his chest.

“Rude, this ice cream did _nothing_ to you, first of all. Second of all, would you _try_ a lemon cake?”

“I guess I could try it but I can tell you now I probably won’t like it.”

“That’s ok. Mercie has more pastries than just the sweet ones.”

Felix raises a silently questioning eyebrow at that, so Sylvain tells him about her. He mentions that they met in middle school and hit it off, that she immediately integrated into their friend group and is practically an angel. He’s pretty sure she isn’t human and her brother is his own brand of weird. That has Felix laughing and Sylvain grinning as their food comes out.

They eat in between easy bits of conversation. Small things like what year they’re in (Sylvain’s a senior and Felix is, too) or what they might want to do when they graduate (Felix wants to work for specific obscure fashion magazines though he doesn’t really care too much what happens as long as he eventually gets there and Sylvain shrugs with a crooked grin because he doesn’t want to think about what’s next). Sylvain talks about working abroad until he was twenty, how overseas didn’t do him a lot of good and the way he acted was kind of a huge _fuck you_ to his old man. Felix doesn’t say much about anything before college, just that he started straight out of high school. When their food is down to their last bites and Sylvain is drinking his malt, Felix speaks up, awkward.

“So, you know Ingrid?”

Sylvain blinks owlishly at the question, licking his lips of stray ice cream. He doesn’t catch the way Felix tracks the movement before breaking eye contact again.

“Are we talking about the same Ingrid?”

“I don’t know. How many people do you know named Ingrid?” Felix snaps back with little heat.

Sylvain rests his cheek in his palm, absently stirring the remains of his malt with his straw. He looks at Felix - really _looks_ at him. Even with the set of his jaw and his drawn eyebrows and severe frown, he still looks good like this. His skin glows with the neon lights illuminating him, painted in shades of blue and pink and purple where the colours blend against his fair skin. 

He hums, as if thinking about it, actively stalling. This is uncharted territory, even if Sylvain already knows their connections.

“No, I guess not.” He sips his malt again. “We grew up together. We’ve known each other since we were kids. I was always the oldest, so I watched over her and Dimitri a lot. We were pretty inseparable.”

Felix gives him the tiniest of glances. Sylvain can see the tension in his shoulders. This doesn’t quite feel like first date (?) material.

“Were?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. The breath that leaves him feels heavy, full of emotion. When he thinks about it, he doesn’t think he has ever really talked about all of this with anyone except maybe Mercedes. Even then, it would have been brief because she was nearly as present for all of it. “A lot happened at the end of high school, months after I graduated and right before I left. Kind of threw everyone for a loop.” He knows he’s being purposefully vague. He just hopes Felix doesn’t notice or say anything.

But Felix has no tact, can’t keep some things in, so he blurts out that he knew her, too. _Kind of_. His brother knew her more.

“They were engaged.”

Sylvain nods, smile sad.

“Yeah, I know. I hung out with him a few times. Nice guy.”

Felix almost looks startled at this, eating his french fries smothered in ranch a little more aggressive than necessary to hide his discomfort. It seems like things are clicking into place for him, too.

“I just think it’s funny we know the same people, yet somehow still didn’t meet,” Sylvain continues. He pointedly avoids the topic of Dimitri. If he knew how sensitive it was with Dimitri, he can only imagine it was still a gaping wound for Felix. There was no doubt about that. “I guess we were still meant to, though. Look at where we are.”

Felix looks almost grateful for the natural way Sylvain adverts the topic, ends it in a way where it doesn’t have to be awkward. His smile is crooked, pulled a little more at one side than the other but still private. For Sylvain only. He hesitates as he looks up at him from under his fringe, using his water cup to shield the lower half of his face.

“It’s kind of funny, huh?”

Sylvain wants to hug him.

“It seriously is,” he laughs.

- **x** -

They finish eating. Sylvain noisily drinks the last drops of his malt to the sound of Felix telling him he’s being obnoxious. He gives him one of his brightest smiles in return and relishes in the way Felix flushes when he teases him about the obscene amount of ranch he uses. Sylvain takes the bill, pays, and looks up at Felix expectantly, hopefully.

“Let me give you a ride home?” _Please let me give you a ride home_ , he wordlessly pleads.

Felix smiles a little wider than he has all night and Sylvain finds himself a little more smitten.

“Yeah.”

Together, they brave the colder weather settling in for the night and combat the chill in their bones by cranking the heat in Sylvain’s car. Felix melts back into the heated seat he’s flipped on, boneless where he looks out the window. Diligently, he follows the directions Felix gives him and finds they aren’t too far apart. When he pulls into the driveway of an old Victorian (Felix says he shares it with Annette and Ashe so don’t be too surprised by the size), Felix fishes his keys out.

Sylvain turns the music down a little, holding his hand out. Felix looks utterly perplexed and Sylvain gives him a flirtatious look in return.

“Can I see your phone?”

It’s handed to him hesitantly after being unlocked. Sylvain thumbs through to the contacts, adding in his number, name with a heart next to it before he hands it back to Felix.

“In case you need whatever or something,” Sylvain offers.

Felix rolls his eyes, smile indulgent. His hand is on the door handle and Sylvain doesn’t take his eyes off him when he gets out.

He ducks his head back down. “Goodnight, Sylvain.”

Sylvain beams, radiant. “Night, Felix.”

Felix waves to him from the steps of his house while Sylvain lingers to make sure he gets inside alright. When he gets home, he has a new text waiting for him.

_Unknown: Hey. It’s Felix._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and naturally, my twitter is @kazujerk if you want to yell about sylvix.


	4. reckless lover.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain and Felix get coffee, study together, and go to a bar. Can Sylvain consider these dates? He'd sure like to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters just get longer and longer, and I have no control over that. Updated to note that this will end at seven chapters, maybe eight, but I think seven is it!
> 
> TW: alcohol use and mature content, both of which are towards the end.

Sylvain finally decides to text Felix Monday, which sets off a regular back-and-forth between them. He sends him a picture of Dimitri and Ingrid, both bathed in the warm morning light looking glittering gold and unfazed by their morning run, breaths puffed out in cool clouds where they’re engrossed in conversation. They look cozy and bundled in their heat-tech running gear, both dressed in shades of blue and their cheeks barely pinked. From appearances, you wouldn’t guess that they just did a five-mile jog like it was nothing.

Meanwhile, you can tell Sylvain is obviously lying in the grass from the angle, knees bent and camera shot right above them. All he says is _help_.

Felix sends him a text back, an image of his cat that’s artistically composed in comparison to Sylvain’s photo. She’s spread out underneath a ray of sun in the middle of Felix’s soft looking grey blankets. All he returns is _No_.

This launches Sylvain into sending an array of texts peppered with various emojis that say he’s utterly heartbroken because _how dare_ Felix be in a warm bed and he be stuck outside on a run with Dimitri and Ingrid. Felix teases him and tells him he should work out more, that it’s good for him. Sylvain retorts that he works out, _thank you very much_. He used to do rugby but now is more of a weights than 5 am morning run kind of guy.

Felix doesn’t respond for awhile and when Sylvain walks out of his morning class, it’s to a picture of Felix in leggings and a tank top looking positively sinful in all that spandex, middle finger raised at the mirror he’s taking a picture in.

They text like this for the rest of the week. A picture of the dinner Sylvain cooked in exchange for Annette baking pastries, flour all over her face that’s lit up in a bright laugh. A selfie of him and Mercedes with Mercie pushing playfully at his shoulder in attempt to get away from the camera, Sylvain trying his best to keep her close, dimple tucked at the corner of his mouth as he grins. Felix returns one of Ashe passed out on the couch with a fantasy book open on his chest, Annette perched over him drawing funny shapes on his face with chocolate syrup. He tells Sylvain that Annette said this is her greatest work of art and Felix agrees it’s his best piece of photography (or photographic evidence, if you ask Sylvain).

Sylvain finds he likes this, though. He hopes Felix does, too.

Every message is easy - to accept, to reply to. Nothing feels forced or uncomfortable like he needs to be someone else, which is a completely different experience for him. He’s used to falsely professional texts with his dad or sarcastic banter with Hilda or the flirty, fake texts with a girl he doesn’t plan on seeing in the next week.

He enjoys these texts, the pictures. Ones that feel so real, so genuine, so just between them. It warms his heart, makes him want to be in Felix’s space and see all of this up close, even if that feels like too much to ask.

But he’ll settle for this - whatever this is that they have. A friendship? Sylvain would like to think so.

Sylvain texts him Friday shortly after he wakes up, still in the hazy arms of sleep. The text feels like one of those last ditch efforts that his sleep-blurred mind says he should make, that he should suck it up and do it because what’s the worst Felix can say? _No_? 

Maybe it’s a little too forward, but his last brain cell tells him maybe he has a chance, if any of the conversations they’ve shared tell him anything. He’s known for being forward, though, for being a little reckless. So maybe this will be ok.

In the picture, his hair is perfectly sleep rumpled and brilliant auburn, skin golden in the early light filtering through the blinds. The way his arm is behind his head and the easiness of his smile paint the perfect picture of morning laziness. Sylvain has no shirt to top it off, exposing collarbones and shoulders littered with freckles and the creeping lines of ink that extend just over the crest of his left shoulder. The text that accompanies the picture is - _see you after class for coffee?_

Time passes before Felix texts back and Sylvain tries to tell himself that he didn’t just ruin the one possibly (probably) good thing blossoming in his life, tries not to let the crippling fear and anxiety it brings grip at him with shaky hands. He buries himself back under his blanket to ignore the feeling.

Felix _does_ text back, though, which causes Sylvain to perk up when he feels the vibration under his pillow. Swiping open his phone, he sees a picture of Felix holding his cat. Half of his face is obscured by a ball of fluff but Sylvain can see the healthy heat to his cheeks, shower warmed, the ends of his hair still wet and his gaze not meeting the camera. He just says - _Ok_.

The excited trill that runs through him is intoxicating, lights him up and fizzles out the anxiety he has. It feels like going on a rollercoaster for the first time, heart in your throat when you cascade down the first big drop. It feels like jumping off the diving board for the first time, water rushing up to meet you before plunging into its depths. It feels like dancing with someone you like for the first time, close in a way imagination can’t supply. Sylvain can’t help but turn into his pillow again at the feeling, pressing his now hot face into the cool reprieve. He wills his heart to stop hammering, breathing deeply. He’ll have to get up for class, eventually, but for now - he’ll stay like this, temporarily content in his pool of feelings.

Sylvain texts him back right before he leaves his townhome.

**S: sweet :)**

- **x** -

It’s a day like any other. He settles into his normal row in the lecture hall, pulls out his laptop, and lounges back in wait for class. He’s earlier than normal, and maybe that’s in part because of the giddiness still making him shake in anticipation for the coffee he’s getting with Felix and in part because he just gets to see him. What makes this day unlike any other is the shoulder brushing against his and the breathy _hey_ he hears moments before class is going to be starting.

Sylvain looks over to Felix who looks like he does any other day - drowning in an oversized black sweater, dark grey jeans ripped, black platform boots laced tight. His hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, tight and efficient. His cheeks are flushed from the cold and what Sylvain presumes was a rush to class. Still, his smile is small and personal, tucked into the corner of his mouth like a secret only for Sylvain.

“Hey.”

Felix settles into the seat next to him for the first time (and hopefully not the last, until the end of the semester). Sylvain watches him pull his backpack into his lap and pull out his notebook before he’s rooting around for a pencil. The professor is pulling up his powerpoint at the front, already telling everyone hello and what they’ll be talking about. The hunt for a pencil or any writing utensil seems more fruitless as Sylvain looks on, so he wordlessly grabs a pencil from the side pouch of his shoulder bag before sliding it onto Felix’s desk. Felix lets out a relieved huff, barely looking Sylvain’s way with a _thanks_.

For the most part, they both focus on the lecture. Sylvain’s almost surprised it isn’t more distracting with Felix by his side, but in reality, it feels more natural than anything has this year. He types while Felix writes and they both get through the long lecture listening to their professor drone on and on.

When class ends, Felix is turning on Sylvain with no preamble.

“So, where are we going?”

Sylvain grins, wolfish.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

- **x** \- 

Sylvain takes Felix to Mercedes’ place. Not really a surprise there. Mercedes is there today, not Lysithea, though he can’t say he knew who to expect when he doesn’t swing by here on Fridays.

Like always, Mercedes comes around the counter to give him her signature hug. She has a certain twinkle in her eye when he introduces Felix, one that speaks volumes as she knows he never brings anyone new here unless they really mean something. Sylvain watches with amusement as Felix reaches out his hand to shake hers, except she takes it only to tug him into a hug. He chuckles behind his hand as Felix sends him a glare over her shoulder, but eventually relaxes as much as he seems able to in her hold.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she says, words weighted.

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” Felix replies, shifting awkwardly on his feet and looking around with barely contained nervous energy.

“Sylvain,” she says next, smile knowing.

“I know, Mercie. Are you going to let us have coffee or not?” he teases, because _he_ knows that _she_ knows that he’ll talk about it later, that she’ll ask for the details he’s willing to give. He trusts her with his soul and life, after all.

“Oh, I suppose,” she sings. “What will you be having, my dears?”

She’s back around the counter, ready to make what’s requested. Felix asks for a dark drip, no room for cream. Sylvain orders his usual coffee order - a caramel mocha, extra shot, absolutely on the whipped cream. For snacks, Felix eyeballs the spanakopita, which Mercedes recommends. Sylvain just orders a simple slice of coffee cake. She shoos them both off and doesn’t allow Sylvain to pay, so he drops a twenty in her tip jar with a wink.

“Come on,” he tells Felix, nodding towards the back.

The secluded back corner Sylvain takes Felix to is like his second home in the shop. Low hung lights illuminate the space, far enough from the wide windows that stretch across the shop front. Dark wood bookshelves full of games and random ornaments and old, well-read books line each of the three walls. Nestled in the middle is a loved, soft leather couch and an oversized wicker loveseat, both overflowing with plush pillows.

When Mercedes first took over the shop, they spent so many evenings here, front of house lights off and only this nook bathed in light. Sylvain, Ingrid, Mercedes, Dimitri - mugs of tea or cocoa, board game spread out between all of them, laughs exchanged. Looking at this space, he misses those cozy nights and dear memories made. Maybe more can be made, now. Just as dear, just as precious.

Sylvain settles onto the wicker loveseat and pats the spot next to him. It creaks under his weight and again when Felix sits and makes himself comfortable in the obscene amounts of multi-coloured pillows that the chair can somehow hold along with them both. Sylvain turns, knees touching Felix's. Neither of them move, just silently accepting the contact.

Mercedes brings them their coffees and treats. Sylvain digs in immediately and laughs at the look Felix gives him. Like always, his defense is that Mercie makes the best pastries and cakes and they’re made with the most love. Felix shakes his head, eating his slower and in between sips of coffee. Sylvain finishes his before picking up his mug.

They settle into the conversation, as easy as the rest of this week, as easy as this weekend when alcohol gave Sylvain courage. Sylvain talks more about Mercedes when Felix asks. He essentially gives him an abridged story about her past and how she got the shop, minus all the sad and dramatic parts. He talks about Lysithea, how they'll have to come back when she’s here because she always makes the best lemon cake and he’ll feed it to anyone who will let him.

Eventually, Sylvain admits he comes here often. Mercedes is his security blanket on a bad day, the shield in a stormy moment that he sometimes needs. Her presence and her tea always leave him calm. He also admits to Felix that he doesn’t bring people here often, that Felix is only the second person he has ever brought here besides Bernadetta - and that was just so they could both escape their fathers and stupid business stuff.

Felix fluctuates between looking sad and confused, maybe conflicted like he wants to ask more but isn’t sure if he’s allowed or if it’s inappropriate because Sylvain’s really talking a lot, especially about himself and that doesn’t happen _ever_.

Felix tells Sylvain he thinks Ashe and Annie would like this place. Their home is always filled with so much food because neither of them ever stop cooking. It’s always either Annette baking whatever recipe her favourite cooking blog posted for the week or Ashe making something new from a recipe Dedue gave him (that Felix always asks for to be made spicier). He mentions it’s pretty easy to get by never cooking when they do it all and Sylvain laughs, joking that it must be quite the luxury because he hasn’t had that since he’s moved out.

Felix shakes his head at Sylvain’s antics. “I’m not saying I _don’t_ cook, just that sometimes there are leftovers and then I don’t have to.”

Sylvain grins over his mug, licking whipped cream off his lips.

“How about you come over and I make dinner for you sometime?”

Taking a drink of his coffee, Felix hums. He leans back into the pillows, lifting his legs to sling over Sylvain’s thighs like they do this every day. He ignores the pointed look Sylvain gives him, thumb tracing the rim of his mug.

“Maybe. It’ll be harder to get me to come over than that, Gautier.”

Sylvain shrugs, hands coming down to rest on Felix’s shins.

“Worth a try. Can’t say there’s a lot going on for me at my place. I mean, you’ve got a cat, at least.”

It’s immediate, the way Felix brightens. Sylvain likes the secret smile he has, the way it slips on when he starts talking about his best friend.

“She is cute, isn’t she?”

Sylvain nods. He’s gotten a _slew_ of cat pictures the last week: curled up in a nest of blankets, stretched out over Felix and Ashe’s laps simultaneously during game nights, standing on Annette’s shoulders while she’s trying to clean up after dinner. Felix’s cat is just darling, a giant fluff ball of pitch black fur with bright golden eyes.

“She is. What’s her name, anyways? I don’t think I asked.”

“Storm.”

Felix talks more about her. She’d been injured when first dropped off at the shelter that works with the cat cafe Ashe works at. When she was well enough to be moved over to the cafe, Ashe instantly couldn’t help but to take a picture of her and send it to Felix with a _she reminds me of you :)_. Felix immediately fell in love.

Turns out, she did too. The next afternoon, he rushed over to the cafe after fencing practice to see Ashe and this cat he’s since gotten multiple pictures of. When Felix sits down, she trots right over for love before making a home in his lap, eyes closed and purr louder than any day she’d been there. He’s always looked at the cats in the cafe and pet store windows and at the shelter, but none ever felt right until this one - Storm.

Her moods matched Felix’s and they meshed into each other’s spaces effortlessly. Felix adopted her within the week and didn’t mind having to rush to get everything for her. Toys, food, litter, a giant cat bed. She was home by the weekend and always glued to him.

Thankfully, she liked Annette and Ashe well enough, though Felix was her rock just as she became his. She was subject for some of his photography projects for class, subject for the million videos he recorded of her looking like an idiot while playing that would be sent to his friends when they needed them, and subject for the love he had nowhere else to place.

Sylvain mentions that he never has had a pet. It wasn’t really a thing his family did. He’s more of a dog person, anyways, though he doesn’t mind cats. Felix makes a displeased face at this and Sylvain laughs loud, swatting his boot.

“My family was always too busy with, yanno. ‘ _Business stuff_ ’. There was no time to really worry about pets,” he states.

Felix gives him a quizzical look, urging him to go on. Sylvain sighs.

“You know how people always think that because your family owns some huge business and is super successful that it must mean you’re going to have some amazing life with _everything_ in it that you want?” Sylvain shrugs, fidgets with his mug before he settles for drinking some of his coffee. “It doesn’t really work like that. Not always, at least. Like, if I would have asked for a dog, it wouldn’t have happened. But other things? My dad wouldn’t have hesitated because I’m like, his ‘ _prodigal son_ ’ or whatever without my brother in the picture.” He hums, pressing his cheek to the back of the wicker loveseat. “It’s just not all that it’s chalked up to be.”

Felix nods, expression neutral.

“I suppose not.”

He can’t help the laugh that bubbles out, tinged with self deprecation and a broken edge to his smile. The cup shifts to one hand, other scrubbing through auburn locks.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to get all weird on you or anything.”

“It’s alright.” Felix is quiet for a moment. “So, are you still expected to take over the business?”

“Yeah,” he replies, shrinking back into himself. He sets his now empty mug to the side.

“After graduation this year?”

The probing Felix is doing is gentle, almost considerate. He’s _absolutely_ pushing Sylvain’s boundaries and comfort level regarding topics he _does not_ like talking about, but something about it feels… alright. He doesn't know what it is, this warm ease he feels exchanging these ugly words of his with Felix, but he does.

He sighs again. “Not immediately, no, but eventually. My dad isn’t ready to step down, yet, and it’ll probably be awhile. Knowing him, he won’t give up anything until he absolutely has to. That’s just the sort of person he is.” Sylvain isn’t looking at Felix, now, but has begun tracing absent patterns into the shins of the soft denim pants Felix is wearing. “He wants me to work at the company branches overseas, but I don’t know when that’s happening or if it will.” A half-lie. “Honestly, I think he just wants me somewhere where I can’t mess everything up. He’s got too much pride in our family name to have a second son ruin everything.”

Felix scoffs, leveling Sylvain with a glare. “I doubt you’d mess up everything.”

Sylvain snorts, looking up. “You’d be surprised about that.”

“Try me.”

Sylvain can only groan, sinking further into the loveseat. His cheek is still resting on the back, arms settled over Felix’s shins. He knows he probably looks pitiful but doesn't care. When did he sign a waiver saying he was going to share so much today, anyways? He can’t remember.

“Go on.”

“Alright. Damn, did you ever see anything about me, before? Like, before we met like… I don’t know, five or six years ago?”

Felix looks like he’s trying to recall anything, humming softly around the lip of his mug.

“Not that I can remember.”

Sylvain breathes out his relief, feels a little less restless. At least those preconceived notions may not be there. “I guess that’s good. I was probably in more gossip rags than I can count. Ingrid used to call me about them, sometimes, but for the most part, no one said anything.” He picks at a loose string on his sweater, worrying his lower lip. “I guess… be grateful you didn’t see them or knew me. I can’t say it was the best time in my life.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Yanno how I said everything went to shit after I graduated? Well, a lot happened with Ingrid and Dimitri and my dad sent me overseas to work for our company branches in France and Germany. I did what I had to in the offices, learned new languages, saw the sights, met with my family over there when I needed to. It was great, don’t get me wrong. I loved the museums, the food, the partying. It… just kind of never stopped. I did a really good job at ruining the nice kid impression everyone had of me.” He brushes the hair from his eyes, arms crossing over the back of the chair for a more comfortable rest. “Instead of interviews talking about what I loved the most and inheriting my father’s company and what I looked for in a girl, I was in magazines for being insatiable or for always being out and most likely drunk.” Sylvain laughs. “Not really my best moments.”

Felix hums again as comment, a little more thoughtful.

“So?”

Sylvain’s gaze snaps up, meeting Felix’s neutral expression. Something in it tells him he isn’t being judged, like he gets that they all do stupid things. It just happens to be that Sylvain was pre-disposed to self-sabotaging behaviours - an unhealthy relationship with sex, maybe a bit of a problem with alcohol as a coping mechanism. It’s better now. Extremely so. He’s grown up, moved on some. The ghost of his brother still haunts him and the chill absence of his mother long gone and the suffocating pressure from his father to be perfect still exist but none of it touches him in quite the same way. None of it makes him want to crawl out of his skin so much or escape the land of the living for some kind of reprieve. Ingrid and Dimitri and Mercedes and Hilda and maybe now Felix make that all the better, all the easier to deal with.

“So?” Sylvain questions, eyes wide and brows raised. “ _So_?”

“Yeah, so what? Everyone does stupid shit.”

Felix shrugs like it’s that simple, like there isn’t a complicated history behind it all.

“You mean… that’s it?” He ignores how small his voice sounds, the thread of hopefulness laced between each syllable.

“Yeah?” And Felix sounds confused, shifting under Sylvain’s touch that’s fluttered back down to his legs.

“You’re not going to like… I don’t know…” he trails off, bites his lip. He’s not looking at Felix again, just at his fidgeting hands. He’s even quieter when he opens his mouth. “You’re not going to like, leave or something?”

“Why would I?” Felix bites out, growing frustrated.

This is a treatment Sylvain is more used to. He can handle the harshness more easily than the gentle concern. He grew up with it. The scathing comments from Miklan and the disapproval of his father that treated him as nothing more than a means to an end and the bitter sadness of each lover he ever wronged, cheek stinging where he’d been slapped and chest just as hollow and empty as when he’d started.

The smile he slips on is sugary sweet and fake, the practiced mask that’s always in his back pocket to wear. He shrugs, shifting his arms back under his head to become the perfect picture of nonchalance. They can both pretend that Sylvain clearly isn’t lying for both of their sakes. That is, if Felix can see through his act.

“I don’t know. I guess people normally don’t care to stick around when they know that side of me.”

Felix scoffs with a hard roll of his eyes. He sets his mug off to the side, sinking further into the couch so his thighs are now draped over Sylvain’s. It’s like his silent method of comfort, giving that contact when he isn’t good with words. At least, not in the way Sylvain is.

“Well, they’re stupid if they think like that and probably aren’t worth your time. They sound like assholes, honestly.”

Sylvain supposes Felix is right. No - he _knows_ he’s right. Is this what Mercedes meant when she said that he would find someone that liked every part of him? From the compassionate side of him to his intelligent side to the messy, cracked parts of his heart?

He softens a little, smooths a broad palm over the expanse of Felix’s strong thigh without thinking.

“You know what, you’re right.”

“I know,” Felix smugly replies.

The corner of his mouth ticks up a little more, smile crooked and dimple showing, freckled cheeks dusted with the lightest flush. He has it bad.

“Modest, aren’t we?” he teases, hand squeezing.

Felix flushes hot and fast, frowning.

“Shut up.”

Sylvain laughs and feels the knot of doubt and insecurity in his chest loosen, bites his bottom lip to squash his growing smile.

“Yeah, okay.” A pause. “Oh yeah. I meant to ask. But fencing? Really? Didn’t peg you for the type.”

Felix sits up a little at that, looking more comfortable with the change of subject.

“Yeah, really.”

Felix tells Sylvain about fencing, something he knows absolutely nothing about. There’s a lot to learn, turns out. He talks about different types of gear, how you get points and the general rules, how he got into it and when match seasons are. It’s a sport he’s done since middle school, something he threw himself into because his brother did it and their father was more than happy to put both of his sons through it.

Sylvain watches as Felix perks up more when he talks about the year Ashe took him to the Renaissance Festival (it’s where the famous elven costume came from in those photos and at Halloween, he finds out) and he saw a live sword fight. After that, he went to a traditional Germanic sword fighting workshop held every summer by the people who run the sword fighting matches at the faire. He looks sheepish when he admits he bought a full sized sword - live steel and all - that hangs on his wall. What’s even better is that he uses it at the mock-battles they have at the end of every 12-week workshop. Felix mentions wishing he could go to the workshop held every winter, but it always conflicts with fencing practice, which he supposes is a good enough substitute but the rules aren’t as exciting and the weight of the blade in his hand isn’t as satisfying.

If Sylvain didn’t find him endearing before, he absolutely does now. Sylvain prompts him with gentle questions to keep him going and learn more. The tides of the conversation have turned easily, like nothing was weird for a hot minute there. He asks things like _have you ever done the battle at the Renaissance Faire?_ **No, too embarrassing. I don’t want that kind of attention.** And, _have you ever gotten hurt from a fight?_ **Yeah, I got my ribs bruised badly my first year from a good hit someone landed.** Sylvain tells him he’d like to see him fight and Felix informs him that the mock-battle at the end of the summer has places for people to watch, that maybe he’ll let Sylvain come.

They stay like this for hours, until the sun starts to dip and the sky is stained pretty watercolours of orange and pink. Mercedes comes to take their long-empty dishes away from them with nothing more than a smile that Sylvain returns.

Eventually, Felix stretches out, the lines of him long across Sylvain’s lap before he’s sitting up and pulling away. Sylvain’s instantly hit with how much he misses the warmth, how much he wants to pull Felix back into his lap and tell him to stay.

“I should probably get going. It’s getting close to dinner, and I think Ashe said he’s cooking for everyone tonight.”

He looks up at Sylvain from under his bangs, gaze glowing burnished gold, incandescent in the golden hour lighting hitting him through the front shop windows. Thin fingers tuck fine hair behind his ear before he’s breaking eye contact again, and Sylvain feels like he’s had the air punched out of him by one look.

Sylvain gives a short nod, laugh self conscious as he snaps out of it.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you so long.”

Felix shrugs. “Not a big deal. My bag is still in your car, though.”

Sylvain flushes, rubbing at the back of his neck. “You’re totally right. Forgot, sorry. You want me to give you a ride home again?”

“Sure.”

The drive is simple and requires minimal prompting from Felix. It’s a path Sylvain’s starting to memorize, a path he’s beginning to hope he can follow one day, on his own.

Sylvain pulls into the drive, they exchange goodbyes, and Felix is starting to get out when Sylvain can’t help himself. Leaning over, he reaches out to grab at Felix’s wrist, hold gentle, smile hopeful.

“See you next week?”

Felix nods and looks like he’s biting the inside of his cheek, like he’s trying to stop a smile.

“Yeah. See you next week.”

- **x** -

They meet like this every week throughout the month. Together, they sit next to each other in class. Felix takes his notes on paper while Sylvain types away. They meet in the library to study during the week, once, and another few times at Mercedes’ over coffee and pastries and sandwiches until Sylvain finally invites Felix over.

There’s hesitation to Felix’s tone, but he accepts, nonetheless.

It’s how they both find themselves tangled on Sylvain’s couch like the first time they got coffee together. Felix has his legs draped over Sylvain’s where he’s editing photos on his laptop while Sylvain reads something for class, nose buried in a book and occasionally rubbing at his dry, tired eyes. He thinks he should take out his contacts but he’s content, here, and has all the human contact he thinks he needs, in this moment. It’s peaceful, like this; Felix clicking around on his laptop, the low sounds of his music playing as an accompaniment. Sometimes, Sylvain hums along to a song and it always earns him a glance from Felix that almost looks fond.

They sit like this for a while until Felix is stretching, socked toes pressing into the other side of the couch where he’s fully stretched out like a cat across Sylvain, stomach growling. He looks adorable with the frown that tugs at his features, his drawn brows, his laptop precariously balanced on his stomach that Sylvain is only mildly worried about.

Sylvain blinks over to him, brow raised.

“Hungry?”

“Yeah, but I’ve got a protein bar in my backpack.”

Sylvain balks, setting his book open-faced down on the arm of the couch. He taps Felix’s legs until he’s freed and can stand up, to which Felix takes as his cue to steal the entire space again.

“No way am I letting you live like that when you’re under this roof.”

Felix groans, shaking his head. “You’re being dramatic.”

“My friends say I’m good at that.”

This earns him a scoff and Sylvain looks over to see Felix with his eyes closed, sprawled over his couch with his mother’s old throw across his lap, arms folded beneath his head. Something about the sight of Felix like this raises a different feeling in him, one where he wants to take the blanket and wrap Felix up in it and in turn, in him. He almost wants to smooth back his bangs and kiss his forehead, tell him to stay right there and relax while he cooks.

Instead, he moves to reach out and ruffle an unsuspecting Felix’s hair, musing it more than it already is in its bun. Sylvain laughs bright and loud when Felix immediately snaps to attention, grabbing for Sylvain a split-second too late as he dodges the attack.

“ _Hey_!”

“Hey, yourself. Yanno, lucky for _you_ , I make a mean curry. You want chicken in it?”

Felix simmers down quick, rolling over onto his stomach to watch where Sylvain’s retreating into the kitchen.

“Yeah. Is it spicy?”

“You think I’d make it any other way?”

Sylvain spends the next forty-five minutes in the kitchen cooking - prepping meat, vegetables, rice, stirring when needed and letting it simmer at other times. He’s stirring the curry at the stove, waiting patiently for it to thicken when Felix decides to join him, hopping up to sit on the counter nearby as he watches the spoon go in circles, round and round.

“Is it done yet?” he asks, looking about ready to grab the pan and eat it right then.

“Mm… almost. You want a taste?”

Felix just blinks at him, head tilting a fraction when Sylvain’s already grabbing a spoon from one of the drawers to his left. He scoops up a bite and holds it out to Felix who, in turn, stares at it as if wondering what to do or like it’s done something downright offensive.

“Careful, it’s hot.”

“I’m not a child,” Felix bites out, leaning forward to wrap deft fingers around Sylvain’s wrist. He’s transfixed as he watches Felix round his mouth and blow on the food, not quite looking at the redhead when he eats it. He licks his lips after he’s swallowed and lets go. “Could be spicier.”

“Next time,” Sylvain barely manages to croak out, clearing his throat.

Honeyed eyes flick up. “Next time.”

Felix stays in the spot he’s claimed on the counter until after Sylvain’s flipped off the burner and plated their food. In one graceful motion, he slides off and is on his feet, graciously accepting the plate offered to him. The way he looks at the food is nothing short of ravenous, and Sylvain can’t help but smile.

Together, they settle into the plush cushions of the dining nook and eat.

- **x** -

This also becomes part of their regular developing routine together. Felix comes over on nights when he doesn’t have fencing practice. Sometimes, they work late to the point where they order out and Sylvain is too lazy to cook or he forgot to go grocery shopping. Other times, Felix comes over just to have dinner and watch whatever is on Netflix that Annette has told them they should binge watch. And sometimes, there are rare days where Felix texts him out of the blue and asks if he can come over just to chill out, that his house is a little too noisy, and Sylvain always says yes because he likes the feeling of someone needing him like no one has in years. He misses the feeling of being someone’s favourite person, and some tiny part of him wonders if maybe he can be worth it - if he can live up to what Felix needs and hold that spot in his life, even if it is foolish.

Ingrid asks them about their relationship late into November when they’re having a weekend brunch together. She’s got a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast in front of her, fingers tracing the bottom of her wine glass. Sylvain’s three mimosas in (god bless swanky all-you-can-eat-and-drink brunch places) with a plate of fruit and pastries half devoured.

Surprisingly, he’s in a relatively decent mood. Alcohol, good food, his friend he hasn’t seen in weeks because their schedules haven't lined up as of recent. Ingrid, perceptive as she can be to all of his mood swings, is taking advantage of it.

“So, when were you going to tell me about you and Felix?”

Sylvain nearly chokes on the pineapple he’s eating, eyes wide when he looks at her.

“What are you _talking_ about?”

“Are you dating?” she asks. Always like Ingrid to cut to the chase. To think he’d been so sensitive about her and Dorothea when she just gets right on him.

“What? _No_. Are you and Dorothea, yet?”

Ingrid coughs as delicately as she can behind her hand, pale cheeks flaring.

“Well… after Claude’s Halloween party, yes.”

“Knew it.”

Glare as she might, Sylvain still gives her the biggest grin. The mimosas have left him feeling light, the food leaving him full. He feels content in a way he hasn’t lately, especially when it comes to talking about things like this. But this month has been good, if he’s being honest. Maybe too good to be true, but still good and it probably shows.

Sylvain watches as her features soften, her smile melancholic when she takes a sip of her wine.

“I haven’t seen you so happy in awhile,” she tells him.

He knows she doesn’t intend for it to be, but it’s a statement like a knife, one that burrows in the cracks and twists _just right_. He tries to think on it, to think back. Really, he does, but he can’t seem to recall a time when he’s been this elated since their childhood, since the last time they were all together and unfractured, threads barely holding them close. Before Dimitri’s parents and before Glenn and before his brother. It’s been a long time and it almost makes Sylvain self conscious to think of how long he’s been miserable, to think of how long his friends have watched him try to destroy himself. It’d almost be embarrassing, were he not the type to have already done everything in the book to embarrass himself and tarnish his reputation.

Sylvain can’t help his nervous laugh, looking anywhere but Ingrid’s sad, sad eyes.

“Once again, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ingrid. When am I _not_ happy?”

“Sylvain.” Her tone is warning and he raises his hands in a manner of giving up.

“You caught me, I know. I just…” he groans, slouching back in his chair. He accepts the fourth mimosa the waitress tries to give him, even under Ingrid’s steely glare. He sips at it leisurely, clearly avoiding the topic at hand.

“ _Sylvain_ …” she stresses, already growing exasperated.

“Alright, alright. I give,” he sighs out, giving his flute a swirl. “He’s nice. Like, really nice. He’s also talented, gorgeous. I just… I don’t know, Ingrid. I think I like him.”

The look he gets is one he can’t quite read but it’s searching, probing. She’s watching him like maybe he’s told the truth, but not the whole truth. Or maybe she’s trying to figure out if his confession is like every other girl or boy he’s said he’s fallen madly in love with. Something in her gaze softens and he feels it when she kicks out a booted foot to hook around his ankle. The kindness and solidarity in her gesture helps him relax.

“You really do, huh?”

He thinks about it for a moment before he nods, smiling into his drink like Felix and his feelings and his feelings surrounding Felix are a newfound secret.

“Yeah, I do.”

Ingrid talks about random things, after that. She talks about the bakery and the dog she thinks Dimitri should get - something big and golden and loyal, just like him. They talk through more food and more mimosas and another glass of wine or two until Ingrid’s flushed in the cheeks and leaning over their table, voice low and smile as conspiratory as it could possibly get, being her.

“You know… I know it’s our tradition every winter to go skiing together, but Dorothea was asking me what I was doing for the holiday. Maybe…” she hums, tucking a short lock of hair behind her ear as she finishes the last drops of her wine. “Maybe you should take Felix?”

Sylvain about chokes (again) on the cinnamon sugar donut hole he’s now eating, eyes wide and expression incredulous. He’s sure he’s going to die of asphyxiation at brunch, today, for how many times Ingrid has surprised him. He clears his throat with a drink of water (the only thing he’s allowed now that Ingrid believes he’s had enough to drink).

“You’re kidding, right?”

Ingrid is the perfect picture of calm as she shakes her head and leans back in her seat, legs crossing under the table. Her foot barely brushes Sylvain’s shin and he almost jolts, feeling like a live-wire. Though he doesn’t, he can’t help but sit up a little straighter, accusingly pointing his water glass at her.

“You want _me_ to take _Felix_ to the _Alps_ this year?”

“Yes, and?”

Sylvain rolls his eyes and gives her a bark of laughter, incredulous. Could Felix even tolerate him and his presence for that long? His mind’s eye tries to picture it - Felix, wrapped up in layers and sprinkled with fallen snowflakes, powder fresh against his dark hair. Felix, bundled in blankets when they wake up together in the suite his father makes sure to book every year. Felix, tangled up with him by the fire in the lodge lounge, sipping spiked hot cocoa and laughing about whatever they did for the day.

Without a doubt, he likes these thoughts more than he’d like to let on. Damn Ingrid for suggesting it even if it _was_ something he’d thought about in passing but didn’t allow himself to imagine, to ruminate on like he knew he would.

He likes the idea of spending time with Felix in that kind of capacity. Almost two weeks in a cozy, extravagant lodge nestled between two tall mountain peaks with nothing to worry about but each other and the snow under their shoes. Sylvain likes the idea of chilly days, Felix flushed and laughing from whatever more daring trail they decided to take for the day. The idea of those chilly days is just as appealing as lazy, fire-warmed nights where the only rush to do anything is maybe to get sleep for breakfast in the morning. He loves this time of year when it comes, away from the vice grip his father has over him and in a different kind of cold embrace, one that feels like coming home. And sharing that with Felix? That’d be its own kind of special.

Ingrid interrupts his amalgam of thoughts with a hand to his wrist, expression beginning to fringe on concerned.

“Sylvain.”

He blinks at her, laugh staccato.

“Sorry. Yeah, you know what? Why not.”

Ingrid smiles and it’s reassuring. Her hand withdraws and she eases back into her previous position.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I’ll still go with you. I haven’t made plans with Dorothea yet.”

“No, you make your plans. I want to, I _do_. I just have to suck it up and do it.”

- **x** -

Sylvain doesn’t know how to ask these sorts of things. Sure, he’s used to asking people on dates or for some one-night fling but to ask someone you’re legitimately interested in to go on _vacation_ with you? Unheard of.

Ingrid and Dimitri are no help on this front, and Mercedes really isn’t, either, considering all she does is give Sylvain inklings of the encouragement he might need. He wants to ask, he really does, it’s just a matter of how and when.

It isn’t like he doesn’t have plenty of opportunities to ask Felix. Felix is over almost _every night_ he can be, otherwise they’re catching lunch together between classes or meeting in the library to study for a test or bumping into each other by chance at the coffee shop in the middle of campus. Still, Sylvain feels the need to seek him out.

The photography studios are opposite the business buildings - large glass structures that look like art, themselves. Sylvain knows that’s where he could find Felix if he wanted to. Generally, he knows Felix’s schedule and when would be feasible to linger around those parts. So he does. Not to ask about going together on vacation. Just to… maybe see him? Sylvain isn’t really even sure what compels him to go.

But he does. He leaves the sterile, looming shadows of the business complex to go see Felix. He stops at the coffee stand in the middle of campus and buys their favourite drinks after checking the time to make sure they wouldn’t be cold by the time he was done waiting for Felix. When he makes it across the grounds, he parks himself on a bench outside of the main photography building where he assumes Felix has class for the day.

It’s thankfully a nice enough day out that Sylvian doesn’t mind waiting outside. Really, it’s probably one of the last warmer days before snow begins to take over, if the forecast is anything to go by. Still, Sylvain is happy he’s bundled up: jeans, a red turtleneck with an even darker red hoodie layered over it, black coat with a fluffy fur collar zipped tight. He’s snug enough in it - at least snug enough that he doesn’t feel the need to step inside and possibly look more awkward than he already does or feels he may.

Just when he’s starting to get worried he made a poor choice in coming out here to wait, Felix comes out of the main building. He’s got headphones in, wrapped in his normal oversized scarf and black peacoat, pants tight and boots laced even tighter. It’s become such a familiar sight that Sylvain feels his throat tighten and his heart seize because it’s just so _Felix_.

And he likes him.

He _likes_ him.

Now that he’s said it out loud, it makes this both equal parts easier and more difficult, even if it wasn’t said to Felix yet.

Sylvain stands from the bench and reminds himself to slow down, even if he’s stepping with purpose. Easy, not too desperate looking or like he was in a rush to catch him. He draws up short on the path Felix has taken, waiting to be noticed to meet somewhere closer to halfway.

Felix, perceptive as always, catches the movement and glances up. He almost doesn’t seem to want to give Sylvain the time of day until his eyes snap back to him right afterwards, realizing who it is.

Sylvain is all sunshine when Felix makes eye contact with him, smile radiant like sunbeams breaking through on cloudy days like today. It only grows when Felix gives him a small smile of his own, stopping in front of Sylvain. He pulls a single headphone out, fingers smoothing over the plastic before pocketing it.

“Hey. What are you doing over here?”

Sylvain shrugs, trying to imitate the nonchalance he doesn’t feel. He feels like he’s twelve and asking a girl to go out with him before he learned what made people tick, before he started satisfying the hunger in himself with anyone willing. Boys, girls, his age or older. Anyone willing to kiss him, let him touch them, let him take a bite of the sweet poisonous apple that became one of his ways to cope.

“Nothing, really. My class let out early.” He holds out a coffee. “Figured you might need this.”

If Felix looked marginally surprised to see him before, then he looked fully surprised, now. Still, he reaches out to take the cup Sylvain has held out, fingers brushing, and cradles it between his hands.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“Are you going anywhere?”

Sylvain shakes his head, taking a drink of his latte.

“Nope. You?”

Felix looks like he’s debating something for a moment, searching Sylvain’s face and then the ground like it’ll provide him with an answer.

“I have some film to develop at the labs. Want to come?”

“They aren’t in there?” Sylvain asks, pointing to the glass-walled structure behind them.

“No. They’re in the old photo buildings.”

“I see.” He shrugs again. “Sure, why not. I’d be bored at home, anyways.”

Felix leads him through the winding paths of the arts buildings before they come upon one set back from the others, a dense thicket of trees bracketing the back of it. He almost doesn’t feel like they’re on university grounds when he looks at it, though he knows if he turns around, it’ll feel like they never left.

Felix scans a key card on the wall, explains juniors and seniors have after hours access to the studios here when they aren’t in use for classes and regular morning studio hours. He takes them through narrow halls, past rooms that hold easels and pottery wheels that are empty, lights off and the low autumn sunlight illuminating them. When Felix opens the door to the photo lab, Sylvain is hit with the smell of chemicals and dust. 

“Jeez, does anyone come in here?”

Felix snorts, setting his backpack down on a table. He shrugs off his coat and tosses his scarf on top of it, leaving him in a sweater and his jeans. Sylvain stares greedily, using his coffee cup to look a fraction more casual about it. He looks away and around the room before he can be caught.

“Not as often as they probably used to. Our professors prefer digital work, though I’m taking a class that has us doing both, this semester.”

Sylvain hums noncommittally, divesting himself of his own bag and jacket.

Felix turns to him after pulling out a capped canister of film.

“You want to come in with me?”

“You sure?”

Felix is already walking to the door of the darkroom, not waiting for an answer, just expecting Sylvain to follow.

“It does take awhile.”

Without further prompting, he follows. He makes sure to sit out of the way in a chair off to the side. Felix doesn’t say anything as he shuts the door but informs Sylvain the only reason he’s locking it is to make sure no one comes in and ruins his prints, shutting Sylvain and his flirtatious grin down. He laughs and says it makes sense, sitting back to watch him work.

Felix is nothing but focused as he preps his film before moving on to the enlarger. He selects a photo, checks the sharpness, and runs a test strip. When he’s satisfied, he runs it, develops it, stops and fixes it, and rinses it. He repeats this for several more photos that he decides on; a constant, practiced process.

Sylvain likes watching him like this, too. Likes watching the way Felix moves between the enlarger and the chemicals set up next to it. He’s transfixed on Felix’s hands, the carefulness behind them as he slides the photo from one shallow pool of chemicals to the next.

Eventually, his curiosity can’t be stopped and he stands quietly, yet not too quietly to not alert Felix. He looks his way as he finishes rinsing what seems to be his last photo, reaching up to pin it along the line hanging above the row of trays. 

Sylvain doesn’t look to Felix, just to the pictures hanging above. He looks over each one, attempting to discern the theme. Each is a haunting shot of an empty street or building, framed in a way that could only be described as eerie and accentuated by the fact that each is in black and white. They remind him of the empty, abandoned feeling grounds of the Gautier estate, in a way, more haunting now than ever without the gentle, singing personality of his mother and the cruel, malicious laughter of his brother. His hand reaches, unbidden, to one photo that looks similar enough to the mansion he spent most of his life in, a huge, foreboding structure of dark stone with even darker wood trimmings. Though he doesn’t touch it, his hand hovers a little too long, only dropping back to his side when he’s broken from his thoughts by Felix’s quiet voice.

“Do you like them?”

Sylvain blinks, exhaling a stream of air he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He nods, not quite trusting himself to speak, just yet.

“I don’t shoot film as often as I used to. I did all my projects freshman year in only film for the classes I could,” Felix shares.

Sylvain looks down to him, bathed in the typical vermilion of darkroom lighting. Even here, Felix’s eyes are bright when they turn to him. The look he gives Sylvain makes him feel as haunted and exposed as the photographs in front of them, as haunted as the dark corners of his life that sometimes creep up on him. He doesn’t like to think of ghosts existing, though he feels like Felix can see all of his, in this moment.

“I bet they’re good,” he finally tells him. “Are they as spooky as these ones?”

Felix turns, giving a one shouldered shrug as he pulls down the picture Sylvain had been reaching for, holding it gently as he looks over it like he’s looking for flaws in his composition or maybe for whatever it was that Sylvain saw in this one photo.

“Some of them are. Not all of them, though.”

Sylvain hums, looking to the photo line again.

“It’s fitting. They all look like something you’d do.”

Felix gives him a wry look.

“And what’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

Sylvain shrugs again, fingers gingerly plucking the photo from Felix’s hands to look at it closer. “It’s not a bad thing, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Amber hues roam over the doorstep of the pictured mansion, empty, the flower pots still filled with lifeless old flowers and the leaves falling from the trees surrounding. It looks just as desolate as his childhood turned out to be, as lackluster as his life has been until Felix walked into it and slid a rose-coloured lens over it.

“It just seems like something you would create, I guess. Like you put yourself into all of this and can tell,” he states simply as he hands the photo back to Felix who has moved marginally closer. Sylvain says nothing to that.

“Thank you.”

It’s small in that way Sylvain heard, before, and Sylvain looks at him closer, moving more into his space. He’ll lie to himself later and say it’s only because it’s so dark in this room, that the dim red light doesn’t emit enough to allow him to see Felix clearly. He’ll lie to himself about how prettily Felix sighs against his lips when Sylvain finally leans down to kiss him all sweet, fingers barely caught under his chin to tilt it up towards him.

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs when he pulls away.

It’s only when Felix is silently staring up at him, eyes wide, does Sylvain realize what he did.

He moves back further, as smoothly as he can even when his movements feel jerky, robotic. He’s biting his lip against an awkward laugh, scratching at his cheek.

“Sorry, that --”

“It’s fine,” Felix bites, turning in newfound haste to gather his photos. He’s moving past Sylvain to exit the darkroom before Sylvain has the time to wrap his mind around anything else. If he looked down, he would have seen the crinkled edges of the photo he’d handed back.

Sylvain’s quick after him, though, a childhood of rugby still ingrained in his movements.

“Fe --”

Felix whips around on him, cheeks blazing cherry and maybe looking a little like he’s ready to cry. Sylvain really wants to reach out but knows better, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets.

“I said it’s _fine_. I just forgot I need to get home and feed my cat,” he snaps, turning to gather his things. What a terrible liar.

Sylvain sighs, resigned to getting his own coat and bag.

“Alright. I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah, see ya.”

- **x** -

Sylvain, much to his own surprise, _does_ see Felix later. Felix sits next to him in their shared class like it’s any other week, like Sylvain didn’t just kiss him the other day and make things weird. What they talk about is the same and how they interact is no different besides how often Sylvain catches Felix looking his way, now. He tries not to question it too much, like he’s wont to do, and settles for believing he didn’t fuck things up _too_ badly.

And because he can’t stay silent for too long, he turns to Felix at the end of class to ask -

“Hey. You want to go out for drinks this weekend?”

Felix screws up his nose, pausing where he’s putting away his notebook.

“Drinks.”

Sylvain chuckles.

“Yeah. Like going out? There’s this bar in the arts district that does a two-for-one martini special in the late afternoon on Sunday. They always play good vinyls and the bartenders pour strong.”

Felix still looks unconvinced, conflicted, fiddling with the strap of his backpack now.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s a small place, kind of a hole-in-the-wall, if that helps. But you don’t have to say yes. No pressure.”

“What about next week?”

Sylvain’s eyebrows shoot up before he’s breaking into a smile.

“Next week works too.”

- **x** -

They meet the next weekend at the bar, this tiny brick building sunk back and underneath some quaint two story apartments. The lights are impossibly low, the music a gentle hum through the speakers. Sylvain sits at the more secluded end of the bar waiting, a drink in a fine-stemmed martini glass in front of him. It’s bright orange with aperol and bubbling with soda.

When Felix comes in, it’s obvious he’s searching the room for Sylvain, and he quickly makes his way over, sinking into the seat next to him in a manner that can only be viewed as grateful. Whether it’s for the distance they are from other people or the secluded feeling of the back corner or for finding Sylvain so quick, he doesn’t know.

Sylvain watches as he removes his coat, shoulders dusted with the first snow of the year. He watches as Felix’s eyes rove over the photography exhibit that lines the dark walls, hands rubbing together to warm them up. Sylvain smiles, pushing a menu towards Felix.

“You like it?”

Felix picks up the menu from the dark oak bar top.

“It’s not that bad.”

“There somewhere else you’d rather go?”

“No, this is fine. Normally we just have drinks at our house during game nights. I don’t go out too often.”

“Wish I could say the same,” Sylvain jokes. Felix gives him a strange look before bringing the menu back up to read.

Eventually, Felix decides on something and orders. Sylvain cuts him off and tells the bartender to put it all on his tab. Felix scowls and goes to protest but Sylvain is quick to hold up a hand, smile placating.

“Don’t. My treat. I invited you out.”

“ _Fine_.”

The conversation they have is safe, talking about things like class and what their friends are up to (which is mostly Sylvain getting Felix to talk about the shenanigans of his roommates so they can avoid topics like Dimitri and Ingrid). Felix mentions his photos got graded well and Sylvain talks about the test he aced that required a stupid amount of memorization and that he’s never made so many flash cards at once for anything. Felix shows him pictures of the cats from the cafe, this week; of Ashe holding one and him playing with another.

Eventually, they both get far enough in on drinks that they’re both beginning to become a little more loose-lipped. Felix is flushed, very obviously a light weight in comparison to how much Sylvain can drink. It’s cute. Sylvain almost tells him as much. Instead, his mouth spits out something equally stupid.

“So, is it ever weird to know that I’m friends with Dimitri and Ingrid?”

Felix, as alcohol-warmed as he is, still looks like a deer caught in headlights. Sylvain watches as he forces himself to relax, watches as Felix goes back in for his drink like they’re both far too sober for this kind of conversation. Not that Sylvain can blame him. After a moment, he shrugs.

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“Yeah, sometimes.” He sounds a little irritated, now. Whether at Sylvain or himself or the situation is hard to tell. “Ingrid might have been engaged to my brother but I didn’t really know her. They spent more time together away from the house than at it. Dimitri though…” he trails off, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“I know you were close.”

“You _what_?”

“Dimitri told me.” Sylvain keeps his calm. This really isn’t that big of a deal, is it? At least, he doesn’t want to make it a big deal. “We talked about it after I met you at the concert. Yanno, the show you played at Fodlan’s Tap?”

“ _That_ long ago?”

“Yeah. It was while we had lunch. I mentioned I met someone I thought was c-- uh, good at guitar and was surprised some of the band members knew our friend group. I was mainly talking about Dorothea knowing Annette, but then Dimitri knew it was you I was talking about.”

“I didn’t know you were that close. I know you knew each other because of the Halloween party and all but…” Felix groans, tone turning accusatory. Sylvain didn’t want or mean to piss him off, but figures that he would. He just felt like his best bet is to be honest, at this point.

“I mean, we grew up together. He’s always been one of my best friends. Remember when I said I knew your brother? It’s because I was still around when all of that happened to him and Dimitri. I went overseas right after.”

Sylvain can see the simmering irritation under Felix’s skin, can see the way he’s trying _so hard_ to hold it in. 

“You mean you _knew_?” he snaps.

“Well, Fraldarius isn’t really a common last name,” he tries to joke. _Bad joke_ , his brain supplies.

“You knew and you didn’t _tell me_?” He’s starting to sound more furious now and Sylvain needs to stop it before he blows up.

“Woah, ok. Hear me out.” Sylvain reaches out a hand under the bar top, open palm up on his knee. Felix glares at it yet still takes it, for whatever reason. It’s just as confusing for Sylvain, but he’ll roll with it. He’s good at that. “I just didn’t think it was my place to bring up someone’s dead relative like it was nothing.” He watches Felix bristle and tightens his grip in apology. “I’m sorry, bad wording. I didn’t want to make anything _weird_. I think I do that enough.”

Felix sits there and searches Sylvain for something or anything or whatever he’s looking for. Sylvain’s tracing soft patterns on the back of his hand with his thumb, waiting with baited breath until Felix deflates.

“Makes sense, I guess.”

Felix takes his hand from Sylvain’s, shifting to sit differently in his chair.

“Glenn just…” he sighs, frustrated. “He meant a lot and I feel like…” and then he growls, grasping for words. “It felt like Dimitri fucked all that up.”

Sylvain winces at the wording, drinking his martini. His voice is gentle.

“It was an accident, you know.”

Felix kicks at his chair, and if they weren’t in public, Sylvain is sure this is the part where he would have been hit.

“I _know_ it was but I- it just--”

Sylvain knocks their knees.

“I get it. It’s hard not to blame the people that take things from you.”

“And what do _you_ know about that?”

“A lot, actually.” He looks into the shallow depths of his drink, swirling the ruby red mixture aimlessly. “My dad disowned my brother. He was a huge asshole, anyways. Did a lot he probably shouldn’t have to a kid, but I never really stood up for myself so that’s kind of my fault.” He takes a drink. “I guess I kept holding onto the idea that things would change but they didn’t.”

Felix is looking at him, expression somber. It’s a look Sylvain has seen from all of his friends, now, each for a different reason.

“What did he get kicked out for?”

“My dad caught him with his boyfriend in the library. He was out within the week.”

And now Felix looks a little puzzled, brows furrowed.

“But you--” Felix cuts himself off, wondering how to word it because it isn’t something Sylvain has put into words towards him, either.

Sylvain snorts, finishing his drink before setting the glass within reach of the bartender. “I’m not out to my family.”

“Oh.”

Felix’s face falls. Sylvain waves a hand, plastering on his usual grin. It isn’t often he talks about heavy issues like this, yet it’s still simple, practiced, to put the mask back in place, even through the buzz of alcohol.

“It’s not a big deal. It’s none of their business, anyways. Besides, the more I can do to make my dad leave me alone, the better.”

“Does he ask for a lot?”

“Doesn’t ask, just expects it. Honestly, it’s annoying, but that’s how it’s always been.”

Felix frowns, bumping his foot against Sylvain’s. Sylvain bumps his back.

“Don’t you get sick of it?”

Sylvain nods. “All the time, but what can I do about it? I was raised to take over the family business which basically means I’ll be living in my father’s shadow forever.”

Felix folds his arms over the top of the bar, pillowing his cheek on them.

“You could just leave,” he suggests.

Sylvain groans, propping his elbow on the back of his chair, cheek against his hand.

“I _wish_ it was that easy.”

“Isn’t it, though? My dad expected enough of me because of Glenn but I said screw it and did what I wanted, anyways.” Go figure Felix would be so straight-forward and practical about it.

“My dad… ugh, you have _no_ idea. He’d flip. You should have _heard_ the things he said to me after he kicked my brother out. I really don’t want to have to hear any of that again.”

“That bad?”

“ _Terrible_. I don’t think parents are supposed to be such assholes.”

Felix snorts. “Yeah, but they are.”

“You’re right,” Sylvain sighs. He sits silently for a few more moments, pulling out his phone to check the time and catch a text he has from Ingrid. He'll answer her much later.

As much as he wants to stay and as reluctant as he is to tell Felix goodbye, it _is_ getting late and he’s pretty sure they both have class in the morning.

“Hey. Yanno, my place is close and it’s late. Do you just want to crash there?”

Felix nods, sitting up again.

“Sure.”

- **x** -

Sylvain pays his tab and drives them back to his. He gives Felix a glass of water that he downs and a few blankets and pillow from the closet when he complains about being cold. Within moments, he’s burrowed under each one, including his mother’s old throw, nestled into the couch. Here, he looks comfortable, content, hair down and splayed across the cornflower blue pillowcase; he looks like he belongs in this space.

He smiles from where he’s standing near the light switch, ready to slip down the hall to his room.

“Goodnight, Fe.”

“Night.”

And when his alarm goes off in the morning, Felix is still asleep on his couch. There’s a swell of emotion that rises in his chest when he looks at him, when he realizes he’s never had someone stay over at his place, before. Leaning over the back of the couch, he gingerly brushes the hair back from Felix’s eyes. It causes him to stir, rubbing sleepily at his face with a yawn.

“Mm?”

“Morning, sleeping beauty. Breakfast?”

“ _Please_.”

- **x** \- 

Felix stays over more, after that night. Normally it’s only on Friday nights after they’ve spent every other minute of their day together. Sylvain flirts with Felix, cooks dinner, and does whatever else around the townhome with him until it’s late and Felix is agreeing to sleep on Sylvain’s couch for another night. Every time it happens, Sylvain wants so badly to invite Felix to his bed but always thinks better of it.

Sometimes, Sylvain can’t believe he fit someone into his life so seamlessly, that his routine of going out nearly each weekend has changed, that he doesn’t always come back to an empty home for long before there’s another body in his space. This is something Sylvain never thought he would have, resigned to living in a flat by himself in a foreign country until his dad pulled him back to the states by his hair only to try his best to wed him off to some woman. Felix here, though, like this? It lights some kind of fire in his lungs that leaves him wanting.

It’s nice, needless to say. A welcome change, Ingrid would probably say. A wonderful chance, Dimitri would agree. A change Sylvain deserves, is what Mercedes would tell him. It’s a change he believes can’t last long, if he listens to the small, insidious voice at the back of his head that wants to warp his view.

As best as he can, he ignores it. It’s relatively easy, considering how busy he ends up and how fast the rest of the semester flies by. Felix has his final projects turned in early with great grades. Sylvain’s been released from some of his classes with early finals and papers, but not all of them. They both still have their ridiculous geology final the next week before they’re completely freed, which is what they’re together for, now.

They spend the evening studying, order out, and eat. Sylvain’s the first to give up on his stack of printed and highlighted notes, legs stretching out over the rug he’s seated on.

“Can we be done for the night?” he whines.

Felix closes his notebook with a snap and drops it on the coffee table, flopping back into the pillows of Sylvain’s couch.

“Hell yes.”

For awhile, they just sit like that together. Sylvain knows winter break is creeping up, that he hasn’t asked Felix about vacationing together, that he has two first class tickets burning a hole in his inbox that are for departure in two weeks. Better now than never, he supposes. Ingrid would be _furious_ to know he went alone and never asked, anyways, and he also can’t help but think that it’d be a little sad, too.

Sylvain turns, arms crossing over the couch cushion to pillow his head that half rests on them and half on Felix’s thigh.

“Hey, can I ask you something?”

Felix shoots him an uneasy glare.

“What is it? It better not be something ridiculous.”

“It might be, just a little,” Sylvain laughs.

“Well, spit it out.”

“Okay, okay. So, do you have plans for winter break, at all?”

Felix stares at him a little harder, frowning.

“No…? Not really.”

“Cool. This might sound wild, but I was wondering if you wanted to go to Switzerland with me this year? I know that's crazy, and I'm totally asking last minute. I normally go with Ingrid but she wanted to stay home with Dorothea and I need someone to go with and she thought I should ask you but --”

Felix cuts him off with a shy touch to his cheek, and Sylvain blinks up at him, smile bashful.

“You’re rambling.”

Sylvain laughs, blushing. Felix smooths a thumb across his cheekbone, and Sylvain heats up more.

“I am.”

“You want me to spend winter break with you, though?”

“I do. Is that too much to ask?”

Felix’s face screws up in mock concentration, gaze tracking to the ceiling. 

“A little, but you’re lucky I have my passport.”

Sylvain lights up, taking Felix’s hand from his face to give it a squeeze. He feels light as a kite and from just one sentence, no less.

“Hell yeah. I promise it’ll be a lot of fun.”

Felix only smiles at him.

They spend the rest of the night settled in with a terrible horror movie that is more funny than it is scary, pressed together side-by-side. Sylvain gives awful commentary throughout, which sometimes gets a reaction out of Felix but never anything more than a smile until Sylvain says something particularly ridiculous. Suddenly, Felix is in a fit of laughter, smile wide and cheeks flushed. His nose is scrunched up, arms crossed over his stomach. Sylvain thinks he even snorts, once. He laughs until there are tears in his eyes, until he notices how dumbstruck Sylvain looks. 

Felix is wiping his eyes when he gives Sylvain the most open smile he’s seen, brow raised.

“What’s that look for?”

Sylvain bites his lip.

“You’re really fucking cute, you know that?”

And Felix is flushing all over again. Just for a different reason, this time.

“Quit it.”

“I’m not lying. Just…” Sylvain licks his lips, leans back into the couch, and takes Felix’s hand. He gives it a slight tug, urging him to move. “C’mere.”

Felix looks at him, calculating, before slipping smoothly into Sylvain’s space, one knee on either side of his hips.

Felix is perched in his lap, and Sylvain can’t even imagine there being any less space between them. He already feels like he’s suffocating, like the air is thinner between their bodies and his lungs are forgetting how to function in the oppressive heat of Felix’s weight settled into him. He’s tentative as he reaches out, despite being the one to coax Felix into his space, fingers barely brushing over his hips. He doesn’t feel like he’s allowed to touch, but he takes the small hum from above him as encouragement.

Sylvain feels hands in his hair before he can even register it, too caught up in the moment, too disbelieving of Felix willingly being so close. He can’t grasp that he’s allowed to touch Felix, he’s _touching_ him, like he’s dreamt of so many nights that have led up to this. He looks up, deep amber meeting melted honey before dipping down to his lips. He grows a little more emboldened by the slight quirk of Felix’s mouth in a smirk and finally settles one hand heavy and broad over his hip, the other coming up to press his thumb against the plush of Felix’s lower lip. Felix’s eyes flutter shut as he presses a kiss to the pad of his finger, and Sylvain’s brain shorts out as he watches. Somehow, it’s equally the hottest and most intimate thing someone has ever done towards him.

“Holy shit,” is the most intelligent thing he murmurs and Felix snorts at him, eyes opening back up to look at Sylvain. Not just to look at him, this time, but to really _see_ him (though maybe Felix has, all along).

“Yeah?”

And Felix is such a comforting weight on his lap, grounding him to the couch as if he’s the only tether he has to this reality. Sylvain feels it when he shifts his weight, leaning impossibly closer.

“Uh, yes,” Sylvain replies, low, laughter tinting his words. He closes the space between them before he can think better of it. 

Sylvain’s hand moves, sliding along the side of Felix’s neck. His thumb presses against his pulse on the underside of his jaw, reminding him that this isn’t a dream, that Felix is real, that he’s breathing and his heart is beating and that maybe this isn’t too good to be true (it’s too good to be true, he knows this yet is allowing it even if it ends up with him in disaster, later). His lips ghost along Felix’s, chaste, before kissing him in earnest.

The kiss is better than anything Sylvain’s ever had and he even dares to think it’s more _real_ than anything in his life. Something so innocent has no right being so damn _good_ , and he almost feels like he could cry. His heart fills and swells with what he’s starting to think might be love. It threatens to choke him, but Felix’s fingers twisting into his hair remind him to stay in the present. He sighs against his lips, and it’s nice. It’s _really_ nice.

His thumb slides against the curve of Felix’s jaw, gently guiding him to tilt his head further to change the angle of the kiss. It’s even better, like this, and Sylvain feels beyond elated, heart in his throat as his kisses become a little more insistent. He’s still slow, savouring the moment as long as he can justify (he never wants to not justify it, wants to sit here and kiss Felix forever in the haze of his warm living room with the fireplace lighting him in an orange glow as heavy, fat snowflakes fall outside). 

Sylvain bites at Felix’s lower lip gently, pulling it into his mouth with a barely there suck. It causes Felix to gasp, a sound just as quiet, easy to miss. Sylvain takes advantage of it. His tongue is curious and wet, and Felix meets him without hesitation. Sylvain is firm in the kiss, fingers wandering to tug out the hair tie holding Felix’s hair up, snapping it around his wrist for safe keeping. He relishes in the way silky strands slide through his fingers and he gives a gentle tug, holding him in place to kiss him thoroughly. 

He thinks he could do this all day, that he could die like this and be as happy as he could get. Who cares about love when there’s a pretty boy in your lap, kissing you, that has made you feel like a teenager all over again and maybe more loved than anyone else in your life, whether it’s true or not? Surely he doesn’t. (It’s a lie - he knows he cares, cares too much about the fact that maybe this is the last time he’ll see Felix and Felix won’t want a damn thing to do with him after they’ve fucked and moved on).

Sylvain’s nails scrape along Felix’s scalp, using the last shreds of power he has to ease back from the kiss. It has Felix crowding back into his space, chasing his lips for another, and Sylvain has no time to think or take a breath. He doesn’t particularly care, can’t even find it in himself _to_ care, really. He just inhales through his nose as best he can as Felix devours him.

This kiss is a little more hungry, a little more clumsy while they try to learn each other. It’s still slow and Felix is just as thorough with the way he fucks into Sylvain’s mouth with his tongue, like he’s trying to map each route it can take before it winds up in a dead end. He sucks on Sylvain’s tongue, scrapes teeth on his bottom lip, and dives back in again. It emboldens Sylvain, and he dips his hands under Felix’s sweater in urge to seek more contact. Big hands coast Felix’s sides, up his toned back, down, back around to his front before they raise higher, higher, until his thumbs are brushing light over Felix’s nipples.

Felix keens against his lips, breaking the kiss in what Sylvain thinks is an unwilling gesture yet it’s something that he can’t help. He pants heavy, looking down at Sylvain with pupils blown wide, a rim of molten gold barely visible.

“Kiss me again,” Felix commands.

Sylvain is more than happy to oblige and leans back in to kiss him. Felix has hands on him now, in his hair, tugging, making him groan before moving on to map paths over the back of his neck, down his chest, back up and over his shoulders to dig blunt nails in through the flimsy material of Sylvain’s long sleeve. Sylvain kisses him deep, leaning forward to press their chests together, hands pulling Felix closer where they still rest against his ribs under his sweater. He pulls back enough to speak soft murmurs against Felix’s lips, hands ghosting higher.

“Can I?” Sylvain asks, almost timid, quiet, trying not to break this moment.

Felix only nods, raising his arms to help Sylvain strip him of his sweater. He watches the involuntary shiver Felix gives at being exposed, and it only makes Sylvain a little more excited to warm him back up.

Felix leans back enough to play with the edge of Sylvain’s sleeve when Sylvain lays hands back on his waist, leans back enough to let Sylvain really look at him. He watches the motion of Felix breathing, catches the way he swallows when Sylvain stares a little long. His gaze travels over the sharp jut of his collar bones to the dusky pink of his nipples to his toned stomach to the dip of his hips. Maybe he lingers a little long, admiring, before he glances up to Felix’s flushed face.

Sylvain presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, one arm wrapping completely around Felix’s waist to bring him closer and anchor him there. “I got you.”

Felix leans in, as if drawn, and Sylvain presses another kiss to the edge of his jaw, right underneath, further down at the junction of his neck and shoulder. Each one is firm yet gentle, fervent yet unhurried. He breathes deep and parts his lips to give that spot a wetter kiss before sinking his teeth in and sucking, tongue smoothing flat over the mark he left. The motion earns him a gasp and he can feel Felix bury his face into his hair, shuddering, one arm tight around his neck and the other buried back into his hair with a tightly fisted grip. He takes that as his ok and does it again, moves above where his shirt collar would rest and back down across his clavicle.

Sylvain sucks a litany of marks into Felix’s pale skin, some red, some beginning to purple. He relishes the sweet sigh he gets each time his mouth latches on, lives for the full-bodied shiver that wracks Felix’s bones when he sinks his teeth in. Felix pulls auburn hair hard when Sylvain bites a little too deep and he groans, lets his head get pulled back and brought into a hungry kiss.

It’s all spit and teeth and tongue, desperate, like a dam has broken between them and the water has rushed forth to greet the neighboring body of water it’s been denied of meeting for so long. Sylvain laughs against his lips, fingers holding tight to Felix’s jaw.

“I can’t believe you,” he groans out, unwilling to elaborate so he kisses him again.

Sylvain kisses him time and time again until he’s breathless, until he’s leaving marks on the other side of Felix’s neck, until Felix is grinding his hips down to meet Sylvain’s and he can feel how hard he is through his pants. He plays with his nipples, sucks marks into his chest, laves his tongue over each until they’re pert and Felix is whining.

His head drops to the back of the couch, drinking Felix in again - hair down and disheveled, bruises littered down his neck to his chest, eyes shining and lips pink, cheeks flushed, cock hard in sinfully tight black denim. He almost looks shy under Sylvain’s wandering, appreciative gaze and forces him to break it with a very purposeful roll of his hips.

Sylvain hisses, hands spread broad over Felix's ass to drag him in, to finally thrust up against him. He’s equal parts slow yet bold in his movements, so painfully hard and so painfully distracted by Felix, only Felix.

It isn’t until Felix is saying his name and undoing his belt and popping the button on his jeans with quick fingers that Sylvain registers what’s happening. What’s _been_ happening, been building. He curses and gets a hand on Felix’s wrist, grip tight. 

“Wait.”

This is different territory, new, like untouched snow across a wide lawn. Sylvain's never stopped someone from touching him intimately, before, always let people have their way while he's had his. He's never really _thought_ about saying no, has questioned it less the older he got and the more he indulged. But this time he likes someone. Really _likes_ them, unlike every other fling that's come in and out of his life or every girl he claimed to love in high school before breaking their heart. He doesn't want to do that to Felix.

Felix almost looks hurt, fingers curling into a fist yet not pulling away from Sylvain's hold. The movie in the background and Felix's heavy breathing and the sounds from outside are all white noise to him, right now. There’s only static in his ears as he tries to stay calm, as he wraps his arms around Felix’s waist and buries his face into his shoulder. He’s trying his best to match his breathing to the rhythm of Felix's chest rising and falling against him, melts into the steady motion of fingers running through his hair.

“I’m sorry. I just - I _like_ you.” Sylvain leans back reluctantly, touches Felix’s face and gives him a smile that’s unsteady. “I like you, and I don’t want to fuck this up.”

Instead of saying anything, Felix kisses him, slow and tender. He kisses him on the mouth, his forehead, the bridge of his nose.

“Alright.”

Sylvain’s smile grows a little more confident, hands wandering up the smooth expanse of Felix’s back.

“Alright. Stay with me tonight?”

“I will.”

Sylvain stands with Felix in his arms and laughs at the undignified noise that slips from him. He takes him to bed where they undress, get under the covers, and talk in hushed whispers until they're both able to fall asleep. And when he wakes up in the morning, Felix is blessedly still there and Sylvain is a little more in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/kazujerk), like always.
> 
> Also, if you guessed it, each chapter is a song title. They're from my sylvix playlist you can listen to [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/406X8GTgHSVKb5YKl4cUjY).


End file.
